


Forget me not

by KimsyWims



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Drunken Shenanigans, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sass, Slow Burn, Smut, Witcher 3 plot, favor for a favor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-06 03:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12202938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimsyWims/pseuds/KimsyWims
Summary: Roche never thought he’d have to sink so low as to ask the leader of the scoia’tael for help, but here he was, with no other choice. If they wanted Radovid dead, they’d need able men… and who more able than someone who’d already been part of a regicide?And if this someone was also incredibly good looking... well no one needed to know Roche's thoughts about that damn elf.Drama, smut and drunken shenanigans. What more could anyone possibly ask?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is me, trying out a new fandom besides marvel and Dragon age. Hope it works out because I love these two goofballs and there are too few fics with'em.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth is having a piss poor day. Getting shot in the shoulder and having to flee for your life? Could the day get any worse than that? Well, of course it could...

There’s a calm breeze rustling through the treetops of the still sleepy forest. The sun filters through in its first morning rays, playfully chasing away the crispy chill of night. A doe is grazing on an open area and a rabbit is peeking out from its hole. The air is filled f a soft humming, an orchestra provided by insects and birds in a beautiful harmony.

The forest is as calm as it’d be any early morning… but merely for a moment.

The early morning routine of nature and peace, is broken by loud voices shouting in a short away distance. Heavy boots and the cracking of branches when something or rather someone was running hastily over them, or simply breaking them by running against them in a hurry.

“No, I sar’im thataway! Sure o’it!”

“Don’ leddim geddaway, I know tha’ last arro’ hit’im!”

At least half a dozen of humans, shouting between one another while they are chasing across the forest is what breaks the calm. Who they are chasing is a lone elf. An elf doing less than half of the noise just one of the humans make and half the damage to nature, and even in a chase like this, the elf prides himself on it.

This wild chase has been going on for a sold half of an hour and it is quickly starting to take its toll on both hunters and hunted. Especially since the sun was stealing away the chill in the air that had up until now kept the runners from overheating.

Iorveth takes a sharp turn to his left behind a large boulder and into some greenery. With some luck, the dh’oine would not have seen his escape and run straight past him, too much in a hurry to be wise. Or perhaps they would just be too much of a dh’oine to be wise. Whichever suited them the best, Iorveth didn’t really care.

He himself had a much more pressing matter than to determine if the dh’oine were touched in the head or not. Namely, the bolt currently lodged in his right shoulder. The reason why he was running instead of fighting, the reason he could pull neither bow nor sword.

It had been nothing but stupid luck from the side of the dh’oine and pure bad luck from his own that the bolt had hit him. He had been occupied fighting three other ones and when he dodged a slash aimed at his head and forgot about the archer, the bolt had hit him square in the shoulder, making him pay dearly for his foolish mistake.

Fucking dh’oine!

The scoia’tael never had issues with these villagers before. In exchange for the them to keep bandits away from their village, they’d had an open trade with the villagers, something that had been good when their own storages had run scarce in camp.

But with the war raging between the emperor of Nilfgard and the deranged king Radovid, the world had truly been pushed onto its arse. No doubts these men had figured there was more coin to be made by dragging a scoia’tael leader in for the reward rather than what trade could possibly bring them.

Fucking dh’oine.

The sound of heavy boots grows nearer and Iorveth presses up against the boulder by his back, sitting low on the ground with the bushes covering most of his lithe stature. To his enormous luck, the heavy footfall simply crashes by him and soon, the dh’oine can be heard shouting far away again, but this time the opposite direction.

Had he been unharmed and had a working shoulder, he wouldn’t have been forced to go as low as to hide for simpletons. But as it was, better live and repay these villagers with their own _kindness_ later on, then it was to die by stupidity.

Pleased that the greenery and the boulder had held true to keeping him hidden, he breaths out a sigh of relief. That had been too damn close for his own personal liking, he’d let his guard down and nearly gotten himself burned… once again.

It was all due to this war that was pitting dh’oine against one another. No one really cared if a _squirrel_ moved about in the area. There were no great reward posters any longer and people simply didn’t think the risk was worth whatever pay they could scrape up for an elven head anymore. He was sure Roche would still pay a pretty crown if someone was to show up with him there… but he had heard very little of the blue stripe commander and no one quite knew where he were hiding.

This had made him and his kin reckless and stupid. Blinded by the hope that they finally had a breath of peace they had grown careless. That stupidity had now nearly cost him his life and he was lucky to get out of it with nothing more to tell of it than a new scar to his shoulder.

“Fucking dh’oine.” He grumbles low as he grabs ahold of the arrow shaft.

Alright, he just needed to pull this thing out, wrap his shoulder up in a makeshift bandage and then head for his camp for some help to patch it up properly. It would take perhaps three hours or so to the closest camp on foot so he would have to tie it nice and tight, or there would be blood everywhere.

Taking a deep breath, finding a good purchase in the ground with his boots and pressing back against the boulder. He’ll need to do this as quiet as he can or anything could jump out of him and he’d prefer not to fight a group of neckers like this.

He’d do it on three… One, two...-

“Don’t bother moving, scum. Or I’ll cut you down where you sit.”

There was a sharp cold blade by his throat and the voice came from a female dh’oine. Unfortunately for him, he knew that voice and he knew this dh’oine. And to be entirely honest? It was probably his own fault she was there. You weren’t supposed to speak of the monsters or they’d appear and he’d thought about the blue stripes just moments earlier.

It was like walking out into a swamp and point out the lack of drowners. Very stupid.

“There’s and arrow lodged in my shoulder, I’d like to remove it so it won’t beat you to killing me.” He snarks at her. Unafraid of what she might do.

“So you can use it against me as a weapon? I think not. Get up on your feet.” Ves snaps at him.

Iorveth sighs loudly, it’s an exaggerated over dramatic kind of sigh just to let Ves know how much he was **not** enjoying this situation. But he follows her orders and slowly let go of the arrow shaft. It aches like hell, but then again, he preferred living rather than being decapitated on the spot if he could avoid it. Doing what Ves wanted for a moment might leave an opening for his escape.

So, he struggles back up on his feet from the ground, gritting his teeth to avoid making the pained sound he’d nearly let out as the arrow makes itself reminded with jolts of pain rushing through his left side. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction to hear how much pain he was in.

“Now what, dh’oine? You wished to wait until I was standing up before you killed me? I appreciate the so-called honor in it, but really, I’d have preferred sitting.” He is sassing her. Can’t really help it and doesn’t feel like helping it.

“Hands behind your back.” Ves says sharp.

“There’s an _arrow,_ in my _shoulder._ How do you expect me to move my arms behind my back?”

“I don’t care, hands behind your back, now.”

Her blade is pressing tighter against his throat and the hot tickle of something running down the side of his neck is telling him she drew blood. Okay, so his little farce hadn’t worked, he simply has to bite the sour apple or get his head lobbed off. Again, he decides living is a better option than dead. So even if it pains him beyond what’s reasonable, he moves his arms behind his back.

Ves takes no time binding his hands painfully hard together, pulling out a small grunt from him because of the pain. Then she strips him of his weapons, at least the ones she can see, but he is pleased to note that she isn’t throwing them away but bringing them with her. It would have been a shame if his bow had been lost.

“Careful with that, my bow is older than you are.”

“Shut up whoreson or I’ll snap it in two.”

“So harsh. Do you treat all your prisoners like this? Or am I just special?”

There’s a knife digging into his back, but it’s clearly nothing more than a way to get him moving. Annoying as it is to follow this dh’oine’s rules, he has no other choice than to do as she please and start walking in the general direction she’s leading him.

“Are you going to let me know where we are going? Or shall it be a surprise?”

“I said shut up scum.”

“Ah yes, because I simply love listening to dh’oine filth at a daily basis. Perhaps I feel like a little song while we walk.”

“Shut up, or we’ll both get eaten by neckers.”

“As if you aren’t just going to kill me anyway.” Iorveth scoffs. “You want to do it somewhere where your men can see or does Roche want the honor himself?”

Iorveth have no delusions, no doubt that he is going to get killed if he can’t figure out a way to get away from Ves. Roche probably gave orders that he wanted to be the one killing Iorveth after their little encounter in Velen. He can’t even say he wouldn’t do the same in the other’s shoes, even if he himself had no desire to kill the commander.

Not that he’d let anyone know as much… He’d take that secret to his grave. It wouldn’t do good if people began question why Roche was still alive. That Iorveth had his own very personal reasons to why he hadn’t simply ended Roche’s life in the Flotsom forest.

“Roche want to talk to you. That’s the only reason you’re still alive, understand?”

Well, well, well. Color him intrigued, that was not what he’d expected from his sworn enemy at all. This was turning into a rather interesting day. Painful, but interesting. Perhaps he shouldn’t try to escape, Roche might just have something worth to say.

He just hoped he’d get out of this mess with his life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth is taken to the blue stripes camp and gets some food... Roche is less happy about this since the food the damned elf got his hands on was Roche's food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth and Roche finally meet again and someone lose their clothes.

The scoia’tael had long tried to map out the location of the blue stripes camp. They’d made guesses of cities, houses, people who would be loyal enough to hide them, or places in the forest where they could possibly have hidden an operation their size.

Iorveth’s own guesses had been underground. Annoyingly enough had the possibility of the old elven passageways underneath one of the major cities been high on his list.

What he hadn’t expected though, was to find them in a cave in the forest. Not even too far away from his own scoia’tael camp… if he got out of there, he’d make sure they moved their own camp as soon as possible… just as a precaution.

But here they were and there was yet so far, no escape to be made.

Ves pushed him on towards the opening in the cliff. It wasn’t at all large and quite easy to miss, hidden away behind some trees and greenery. He could see the guards, but they weren’t dressed up in their blue stripes gear, instead they looked mere bandits. Iorveth begrudgingly had to admit this a smart tactic since no locals would think it worth the risk to attack with no cause.

“Keep your trap shut or someone will probably skewer you.” Ves hisses at him.

“Awh, so it’s just our dear old commander that’s gone soft for me then? How depressing.” He can’t help the teasing chuckle in his voice and even if it makes Ves dig her knife a little further into his back, it’s worth it.

The entire trip with Ves had up until now has been pretty much him, sassing and snarking the dh’oine whenever he had the chance. He’d been trying to annoy her into making a mistake so he’d have been able to escape.

Alas, no such luck had yet come upon him and as it now was, it was starting to look as if it might be a bit too late.

As they reach the entrance of the cave, they are curtly halted by two very rough looking guards. They sure did play the bandit role very well, or perhaps they even were bandits. It’s not like Iorveth would be surprised if they were. The blue stripes were the worst of the dh’oine, people who enjoyed killing and torturing his kin. Finding them affiliating with bandits wouldn’t be a shocker.

As he look at these two rugged dh’oine he’s wondering, once again _(for this was something that hit him often)_ how the race of the dh’oine kept multiplying like vermin. There were so very few of them to possess something akin to beauty. Mostly they would look dirty and rugged, as if no dh’oine knew how to wash themselves. How would any dh’oine want to carry babies with such ugly men? It was beyond him.

“Why’s ‘im’ere? And why’s he ‘ere alive?” The guard on the left grunts out.

This guard has lost two teeth and looks like if someone once upon a time dropped him on his head. The brown hair is greasy and his brown eyes are locked straight at him.

“Eloquent.” Mutter’s Iorveth under his breath. This is followed by a smack over the left side of his head, coming from Ves. “Ouch! Careful with the ear dh’oine! They’re not there for decoration.” He grumbles annoyed.

“Oh well then, we’ll just chop’em off for you then!” The guard growls, reaching for his knife.

“You can’t get information from a dead elf.” Ves snaps in a sharp commanding tone. “Nor a deaf one, so save it for later. Roche wants to have a chat with him.”

The guard seems to either have a slow thought process, or simply questions Ves’ authority, because it takes a good long moment before the knife is pushed back into its place. Letting Iorveth breath an inaudible breath of relief.

He may play the tough game, but he’s in a real sticky spot right now if he’s to be honest with himself. He has to rely on Ves keeping the dh’oine away from him or he’d end up with a knife in his gut. Which would be a truly sad way to go down, and he’d prefer that not to happen.

He’s been in a similar situation before, but the circumstances had been quite different. For one, he’d been led by Gwynblade, for two, he hadn’t actually been a captive. Also, Geralt was no dh’oine, he was a witcher and had been on Iorveth’s side, for a time.

For now though, there’s nothing he can do of his situation, when the guards move aside, he has no option but to walk into the endrega’s den and hope for luck.

The cave is a lot larger than he’d originally thought, more of a system of tunnels and rooms than it was an actual cave. In the chance of him being able to escape, this would undoubtedly become an issue… as would all the soldiers, many of whom had stopped what they had been doing, to stare.

“Do you know what you call a Temerian hiding in a cave?”

“I swear to the gods, if you finish that sentence I’ll let them skewer you.” Ves hisses at him.

“What crawled into your boot and died? Out of the two of us, which one has an arrow lodged in their shoulder and walking towards certain death?”

“Shut up.” Ves snaps back.

There’s an exasperation in Ves’ tone from behind him and it’s enough to make Iorveth grin toothy. But he decides to keep his trap, he should probably try not to get himself killed. He had a feeling Ves was the only one with a care that the commander wanted to talk to him before killing him.

Not that their trip is much further, maybe five minutes in, he’s pushed through a door and rudely shoved to his knees. Had it been in the forest he wouldn’t much have cared, grass and mosses usually pillowed the fall, but this was against hard wood and he gritted his teeth for the pain. Not that it was to be compared with his shoulder, but still.

“Damnit dh’oine! Could you be any gentler? One could think you had a crush on me the way you push me around.”

This only serves to get himself another smack to the side of his head, but no reply. He’d wish she’d stop hitting his sensitive ears, but alas. He wasn’t about to tell them that his ears were in fact sensitive, that was something elves kept to themselves and for good reason.

He hears her steps behind him, leaving, and then the slam of the door shutting behind her and he’s left alone in the small room. _Finally_

The cave room is as cozy as a hole in the wall comes he suppose. There’s a desk, a bed, a few crates and a makeshift fireplace underneath a hole in the rocky roof. Whoever now would drag these items into a cave… well, he has a feeling he knows exactly whom would do such a thig.

But he sees no reason to take the time for reflecting on how Roche had his living arrangements. Instead he pushes himself up from the floor and starts to look around for something sharp to cut his bindings with and possibly that could be used as a weapon.

His chances of escaping are admittedly slim at best, but he could at least take some dh’oine scum with him as he went. Cripple Roche’s forces a little to give a better chance for the remaining scoia’tael if they happened upon each other again.

There’s a letter knife on the desk that would suffice for his intentions, so he heads straight for the desk. Only to hesitate. Fuck, that was some properly cooked chicken right there. When was the last time he’d had some decent cooked chicken? Or food at all? Sure, Tilani’s rabbit stew wasn’t half bad, but… it sure didn’t beat properly cooked and seasoned chicken.

Iorveth quickly reaches for the knife and begins to saw through his bindings. His right arm is in a shit poor state, the arrow still lodged in his shoulder, meaning he has to work left handed. This results in accidentally cutting himself a few times before finally the rope snaps.

A quiet groan of relief slips out of him when finally, his shoulder can be moved into a position that will be less painful on him and he quickly rubs his wrists to get the blood flowing again.

As he sees it, he has three choices. He could grab the knife and go to a surprise attack, take down as many dh’oine that he could, but this would certainly lead to his death. He could try to pull the arrow out of his shoulder, but the way it pains now, he’d probably pass out the moment he tried. Thirdly, he could sit his ass down and grab the plate of chicken and wait for Roche to come and have his talk.

Either way, he was fairly sure he was about to die so it was simply a matter of how he’d prefer doing it. If he nabbed the chicken, at least he wouldn’t die hungry and it’d double with pissing Roche off.

So, Iorveth grabs the plate and kicks out the chair and sits down on it ungracefully. He’s in pain and about to die, grace isn’t high up on his agenda, though comfort is. Without caring what he might damage, he puts his feet up on the desk and leans back comfortably while eating his food. Well, Roche’s food anyhow.

The chicken as it turns out, is every bit as delicious as he’d hoped it would be. Sure it has long since gone cold, but the cook and the seasoning is just right. He doesn’t bother to stop eating even when he can hear heavy footsteps just outside the door. Sounds about three, maybe four dh’oine, two with heavy military boots and the other with lighter ones. Interesting.

“Any sounds?” Roche’s muffled voice can be heard through the door.

“None, commander. He’s been quiet, sir.”

Iorveth rips some more chicken off the bone and eats it while listening. What had Roche expected? Even if Iorveth had been out to find an escape path he wouldn’t have made much sound doing it.

“Good, now scram. I don’t want anyone close to this door the closest hour or they’ll be digging the latrines. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Iorveth snorts amused and shakes his head. Digging the latrines? Such a dull punishment, he would have thought a ruthless man such as Vernon Roche would have had a more colorful punishment in mind. Perhaps scooping out more rooms in the cave system with a spoon or something of the sort. Polish every blade in camp? That’s what he would have demanded.

His thoughts are interrupted however when the door is again being pushed open to make way for Roche, Ves and a third one he doesn’t know the name of. She doesn’t look like a soldier though, possibly a scribe? If he didn’t know better he’d peg her a medic.

Iorveth licks his fingers free from chicken grease, watching the dh’oine while they stare at him. He’s glad to note that his little stunt has taken all three of them by surprise and their faces are enough to make a laugh bubble out of him.

“Close your mouth dh’oine or a harpy will fly in and make her nest. You didn’t expect me to wait on the floor like a dog now, did you?” He asks, cheek back in his voice and a grin matching it.

“I should cut your head from your shoulders, whoreson.” Roche grumbles, surprise having turned into rage and very quickly. “However-.”

“You wished to speak with me before you had me killed, yes I know.” He says dismissive, waving his hand.

“Make one move elf, and Ves will shoot you through your other eye. Stand up and move your hands behind your back.”

Ves had picked her crossbow up and was aiming straight at him. Well, he hadn’t exactly expected they’d let him just sit there through their talk so he wasn’t very surprised. But still, he couldn’t pass up on the opportunity granted.

“I am afraid I can’t. As you said, if I make one move, I will get shot. One arrow is enough for the day.”

Besides, Iorveth really isn’t sure he’ll be able to move his arm behind his back again. His shoulder has started to swell badly under his jacket. He hasn’t looked at it, but he can feel it quite clearly.

Roche curses and stomps over to him, making Iorveth quickly jump up on his feet. Roche moves up behind him, twisting his good arm back a bit too tight and grabs onto the other one to pull it back too, but is stopped in the last second.

“Wait! Roche, you took me here to assess his shoulder and I shan’t be able to do so if you tie his hands behind his back. I could work around restrains if they are in front of him but first you’d need to get him out of his clothes on his upper body. I need full access to the shoulder.”

What the fuck was all of this? While he was thankful Roche hadn’t had time to put his arm in any worse state, he sure as fuck wasn’t ready to get undressed in front of his worst enemy. Sure, he found Roche annoyingly attractive and had wondered how he’d look underneath that armor more than once, but it had been nothing but delusional madness. Besides, it wasn’t Roche getting undressed, but himself.

Roche grumbles behind him, firm tight hold still on his other wrist. “Can this not wait?” He asks, clearly annoyed.

“No, he already has gone too long with this. If Ves found him over an hour ago, I would have preferred it if I would have gotten to check him up the moment he stepped foot in camp.”

“Do I have a say in this, or am I merely part of your décor?” Iorveth snarks, but standing otherwise still with Roche so close behind him and Ves aiming her arrow at him. “It is my shoulder after all.”

“Shut up.” Roche growls at him. “And get undressed to your pants.”

“And how exactly do you propose I do this while I can barely move my arm?” He snaps back.

“Use your imagination squirrel.” Roche drops his arm and moves to his side to glare at him.

The woman though, the medic, sighs very loudly. Iorveth would agree with her if it wouldn’t give him a bad taste in his mouth to agree with a dh’oine. There was no way he’d be able to get all buckles up on his own and to then get his jacket off with the arrow still there?

“I shall help him.” The medic says with an exasperated sigh.

But as she takes one step closer, Roche steps in between them, blocking her way with a full body blockade. A smart move if any. If Iorveth had been in the mood of killing, a small frail medic dh’oine wouldn’t have been hard to kill. It would also have the good fortune of crippling all of the blue stripes camp. With no medic, there was no one to patch them up after battles.

“You will do no such thing unless he is bound and preferably gagged.” Roche begins.

“Kinky.” Iorveth mutters, trying to provoke and annoy.

Roche though, elects to ignore him. “Ves, cover me. If he does anything stupid, shoot him.”

Well, well, well. Now they were getting somewhere. If anyone was to undress him he preferred it to be Roche. Of all the dh’oine in this camp, Roche didn’t look too shabby… a small twist in his stomach that has no right to be there now makes itself known when Roche first start to unbuckle his armor.

“Couldn’t wait to get your hands on me, could you?” He decides to taunt.

“Shut up whoreson.”

“Vernon Roche, blushing while undressing a scoia’tael. Why, what will people say?”

“Shut up elf or I’ll gut you.” Roche growls, but his ears are unmistakable starting to turn crimson.

“No, you wouldn’t. But it matters little I suppose.”

Roche sends him a killing look, then he goes back to focusing on the buckles. More than once he tugs the wrong strap or buckle first, and Iorveth is always quick to mock him for it. It’s amusing to see the commander of the special forces get more and more annoyed, it makes Iorveth’s day at least a little bit better.

Once it’s just the jacket and the tunic underneath left, Roche grabs a hold of the arrow shaft. Even though it pains him, Roche is being… surprisingly gentle. Or maybe Iorveth was simply starting to lose the sense of what was gentle and not for how badly his shoulder was hurting.

“Can I pull it out?” The request isn’t aimed at him but at the medic. When she gives a brief nod, Roche looks up at Iorveth and honest to the gods, fucking smirks. The free hand ends up on Iorveth’s chest, as if he was bracing himself… oh fuck!

“Don’t you dare dh’oine!” Iorveth says, when he realizes what was about to happen.

But it’s too late, before Iorveth can push Roche away, Roche has given the bolt a powerful yank and Iorveth can’t help the shout of pain. He’s managed to catch a tight hold of Roche’s clothes with his left hand, but his vision is swimming due to the pain. He feel like vomiting… screaming, sleeping, dying. Whichever came first.

Iorveth remembers the tumbling feeling of falling, but never remembers hitting the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the second chapter.   
> If there's anything you'd like to see or find out, don't be afraid to suggest it in the comment or at my tumblr! Thank you for reading and I hope you'll enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche is not very happy about the elf in his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roche's POV!

_“Roche, we caught him.”_

Such a simple set of words to shape such a lovely sentence. A sentence Roche had been waiting to hear for years. When uttered by Ves, there was enough emotion running through his head to last him a month.

Satisfaction was of course the big one. Blunt and raw satisfaction that after all this time they’d finally caught the son of a whore that had terrorized him for so damn long. But there was also an underlaying feeling of eagerness and excitement, this might mean a turn in their upcoming quest… And then, there was anger. Anger and annoyance raging through him to have the leader of the scoia’tael so close.

The last emotion he felt was one he would not dignify putting name to. In fact, he planned on wholly and utterly ignore its very existence.

This was a stroke of luck. A well-earned and highly needed piece of luck after such long time of bad luck and misfortune clouding their sky. This was what they needed to turn the tide into their favor and, for once, gain the upper hand. And the shape of their luck was a whoreson of a scoia’tael leader.

But still, beggars could not be choosers.

The moment he laid eyes on the elf, that had tormented his life in so many more ways than just killing off his men, he had known this would be one hell of a ride. Not only did Iorveth have a mouth on him that was too quick for his own good, he’d also proven to be quite the menace without even having been in the camp for more than an hour.

Roche glared at his empty plate that had been filled with some nice chicken, before there had been an elf occupying his quarters that was. Then he sends an icy glare to the unconscious elf in the corner. His only satisfaction had been being allowed to pull that arrow out of his shoulder and put him in so much pain he’d passed out.

The camp medic, Clara, had stitched and patched the elf up as nicely as she would any of their own men. Her and her bleeding heart had said she would have no injured men untreated in her camp, enemy or no. Roche had argued that this was no ordinary prisoner, but she had glared at him so deadly that he’d backed off. Never make the medics upset, they are the ones putting your insides back if something goes wrong.

When the medic had been done though, Roche had cuffed the elf, metal this time instead of ropes, and left him alone on a blanket in the far corner of the room. As far away from his own bed as possible in fact. Coming night, he would have to figure a better way to lock Iorveth up or the damn elf would probably stab him in the back while he slept.

And this was the man they were planning to ask for help, the man they would have to trust.

Roche realizes that he’s staring at the elf again, following the stupid tattoo that swirled from shoulder and all the way down over his chest and finally dipped into the elf’s breeches. He briefly wonders just how far and what planes the black vines and leaves reaches as they swirl esthetically over… No!

He quickly shakes his head and looks back down at his papers to focus on what he was supposed to do.

He had not **_blushed,_** while undressing the gods be damned elf. There had been a heat from the sudden close proximity of another warm-blooded person and the excitement to finally having caught the whoreson. That had obviously made his face and chest heat up, nothing more.

Or at least that’s what he was telling himself and what he’d barked at Ves.

He did feel a little bad about exploding on Ves like that, but she would understand him to be under a lot of pressure. Besides, he would make sure to apologize to her later on, when he had calmed down. When his stomach stopped feeling like if he’d eaten something suspicious.

Roche lets out a quiet curse when he realizes he’s left a big blotch in in on his paper when he again had entirely forgotten all about the letter. He quickly puts his quill away and tries to save the remaining letter as best he can. It is pretty much done anyway, so he might as well have it sent off before he manages to ruin it worse.

The letter is to Rueven, or Dijkstra, or whatever the ploughing spy likes to call himself these days. It’s to let the old bugger know that Iorveth had been found and brought to camp and that it was only a matter to convince the son of a whore to help them. _Gods be fucking with them_ , how were they supposed to trust the goddamned elf with anything? Let alone to have their backs in a tight spot?

Speaking of the demons…

There’s a low groan from the cot, and Roche’s eyes are again drawn to the chained-up elf. He has to admit, it’s very pleasing to see Iorveth locked up and defeated. Even if no one truly cares for the scoia’tael anymore, Iorveth had remained a thorn in Roche’s side. Not to mention this was a good payback for the humiliation he’d endured after their last fight in Flotsam.

_A warm clever hand grasped a hold of his jaw, a tight enough grip that it was threatening to pain but not quite there. The hand forced his face up until he was looking up into a lone emerald green eye._

_The scar that started by the elf’s mouth and vanished up into that stupid red head piece, looked even more gruesome up close. The pain it must, sometime long ago have caused… and somehow, it still served to make its owner look refined. Soft cupid lips slightly parted as clearly, Roche wasn’t the only one to try catch his breath._

_“Temerian lilies, that’s all I lacked. I’ve defeated the commanders of all the special forces in the North. Now I shall unite the scoia’tael.”_

_“Finish what you started.” Roche bites out._

_“I shan’t kill you, Roche.” There’s a chuckle in the elf’s voice at that. “We Aen Seidhe never kill the last specimen of dying breeds. Live on and remember who defeated you, remember he can do so again.”_

_Iorveth leans in closer, for a moment, Roche expects those soft looking lips to touch to his own… but instead, there’s an easy tug in his clothes. As the elf pulls away and stands up straight, Roche can see him holding the Temerian lilies emblem, looking it over._

_“Give it back, whoreson.” He grumbles, voice trembling slightly of anger._

_“Va fail, Vernon Roche.”_

_There is that infuriating chuckle back in his voice again, as if this is nothing but game and play. The elf turns his back on him, walking away into the bushes and vanishes into nature. Leaving Roche on the ground, sword a throw away._

_“I will find you.” Roche vows, to himself, to Iorveth, to nature._

_He would find the elf again._

Roche shakes his head, to clear it from the memory that had haunted him since that day. No matter how much he had tried, it simply would not leave him and now he feel even more of an urge to punch Iorveth in his stupid pretty face. Even weighing how badly they actually needed this elf and his expertise in this endeavor. Unfortunately, it’s a lot, the elf is the only one among them to have taken part in a regicide before.

Roche watches as Iorveth struggles into a sitting position as best he can. Roche want to say he is pleased to see how the elf is clenching his jaw to the pain, but he isn’t. He isn’t concerned either thank you very much, he is simply… concerned for the sake of the mission.

He isn’t even sure if he’s pleased that Iorveth is waking up, or if he’d have preferred it if the elf had stayed unconscious while he himself figured out what to do with the elf. Again, punching him in the face would have been his preferable option, but they needed him and if Roche breaks his nose, he’s fairly sure they can assume the elf wouldn’t lift a finger to aid them in anything.

There is a quiet cursing coming from the elf, spoken in elder langue. The red headpiece has slipped up just the slightest. The scar under there seems to be going deeper and higher, Roche quietly wonders how far. Wondering if the elf still has his eye, but it’s not very likely. It is possible Iorveth would cover even a working eye for the sake of vanity… but he was an archer, Roche would never understand how Iorveth’s arrows always rung so true with just one eye.

“Nasty wound, however did an elf let himself get shot?” Roche asks, taunting the elf, because taunting for the moment, is the only thing he can do.

“Save us both time, dh’oine. Get it over with.” Iorveth drawls.

Roche steps across the room and grips Iorveth by his perfect jaws, giving a light pressure while forcing the elf to look up. It is a rougher version of what the elf had once done to him in Flotsam, and yet, it brings an ounce of satisfaction in Roche to see the elf’s eyes widening slightly.

“You only live for one reason as of now, and one reason only. We saved your life out there and now you owe me.”

“Forgetting I once spared your life already?” Iorveth says lazily, not looking, nor sounding as if this is phasing him. “I would call that being even, wouldn’t you?”

“Fine, see this as me, sparing your life after saving it. It still stands, you owe me a debt.”

“And what exactly would it be I owed you? Would you have me play the role of your elven wench?” Iorveth spits out.

There’s hatred in Iorveth’s voice. Rage and hatred burning like a vicious forest fire. But there’s no denial over the debt. Most men knew the sacred rules of honoring a word once given and a life saved or spared. Even if this time, it could be argued what right Roche actually had to claim this debt.

“None of the sort. I need your help, in killing a king.”

This gives the elf pause in his glaring competition, giving way for surprise. Roche can visibly see the wheels turning in Iorveth’s head, feel the elf clench and unclench his jaw a couple of times. This reminds Roche that he is, in fact, still touching Iorveth’s face, and he quickly pulls back, crossing his arms in front of his chest instead.

“Let me see if I got this right.” Iorveth says slowly. “You wish me to help you kill your king? As far as I remember, last I did such a thing you were none too happy.”

Roche clenches his jaw and his fists. He had not forgotten Foltest’s death. The reason for their whole predicament was due to the fact that Foltest had been killed and the north been laid bare for attack.

“Do you have an issue with our goal, elf?”

“What do I gain?”

“Your life sound good enough for you?”

“As you wish.”

“You have no other op-wait, what?”

Roche stares down at the elf. Had he just… accepted? With no bargaining, no torture, no nothing? It couldn’t possibly be as easy as that? Surely, he had misheard. He had imagined days, weeks and months to no end to negotiate a deal with the whoreson. How the elf would not agree until they had promised him an arm and a leg. And here they were… and the elf had just, accepted?

“As we speak, sorceresses are being burnt at the stake in the last free city. The dh’oine has upped their efforts to annihilate what differs from them. Once there are no more of the sorcerers, they will come for the next kind that differs from you. I have no delusions that elves would be spared of this or whom is to be held responsible.”

“And once we are done?” Roche prods.

“I shall assume you shall go back to our mutual wish to kill each other.”

Roche doesn’t reply to this at once. It has been a long while since he actively wished to see the son of a whore dead. Yes, he’s wanted to find him, to knock him down from his high horse and to stop him from attacking his men… but he hasn’t wished for Iorveth’s death. Not since Flotsam.

Abruptly, Roche turns his back on the elf and stalks back towards the desk. He was not about to show the elf how his face had started burning hot by the thought of their past encounter. The encounter that was etched into his dreams and his mind.

“Or we could just fuck and get things over with.”

Roche isn’t sure he’d actually heard that right. The sly coy voice Iorveth had used was nothing if not filled of flirt and dirty promises. He whips around on spot to stare at the elf, who is fucking grinning!

“What!?”

But before Iorveth can open his mouth to talk, the door slams open, revealing a furious looking Ves. Roche prays to whatever god would listen that his face isn’t as red as he feels it to be as he looks at Ves. He is giving his very best to ignore the elf who has the audacity to look **_amused_** over this.

“What!” Roche snaps again, this time to Ves.

“There’s a huge fight, they won’t hear me.”

“I’m coming. Get someone to guard the whoreson.”

Roche is not **_fleeing,_** he was clearly needed elsewhere and thus only leaving this room because he wanted to prevent fights in his ranks… that was all. This had nothing to do with the scoia’tael leader and his words. None at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get drunk... it's either a disaster or the beginning of something interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Smutty things happened right ahead.

Time is a funny thing, you can measure it in years, months weeks, days, hours and so many more ways. Time is a vital thing to know when you plan strategical movements and raids. And yet? In Roche’s dark, combined bedroom, office and apparently elven prison cell; Iorveth has long since lost the concept of time before Roche finally return.

It could have been several hours, or it could have been just the one. He wasn’t certain anymore. The sole thing he knows, is that the night had fallen outside the cave when finally, he hears boots approach. The only reason he knows it is night time is due to the hole in the roof over the small crevasse that serves as a fireplace. He couldn’t see clear sky, but the sun had filtered in through the top, providing the room with some soft lighting.

Now though, he was sitting in the pitch dark, alone with his thoughts. He wonders what his scoia’tael unit is doing. He knows he won’t be missed for at least another three days’ time. Not that they should find him here though, even when they started searching for him, so it really mattered little.

He looks up as the door creaks open, blinking a little to adjust his eyes to the sudden source of light. Since he wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the dark either. No one had seen it fit to come and light a candle for the rebel scoia’tael leader. Not exceedingly unexpected of course.

“Goddammit all, you better still be fucking here, elf.” Roche growls as he steps into the dark room.

“And where exactly would you have me gone, dh’oine? Built a tunnel like a dwarf?”

“Where the fuck did you… Fuck! Get off my bed you scum!”

Iorveth gets a sly smile on his face at this. He had quickly abandoned the corner of where they’d placed him once he’d been left alone. At first, he’d passed the time by reading Roche’s correspondence, when that had started to bore him he’d looked in a book about necrophages, and done so until the dark consumed the room.

That’s when he’d decided that the chair was better than the blanket he’d been seated on in the corner; but the bed had been considerably better than the chair. So, he’d made himself as comfortable on the bed as he could with his injured shoulder and back bound arms.

The bed certainly wasn’t the bed of beds, it was nothing more than a small wooden cot base, with a mattress filled of straw. But it was far softer than a blanket on the floor or a tree branch high above ground, that’s for damn sure.

Mostly, the scoia’tael slept on blankets or bedrolls straight on the ground. At times up in the trees for safety. None of them were foolish enough to settle down so grounded as to make an actual bed. It would only be left behind the next time the camp moved on, and they moved camp a damn lot to keep their tracks hidden.

“No, I don’t think I shall.” Says Iorveth, amused smile splaying on his lips. “It has been since Vergen that I slept in the resemblance of an actual bed, I will not pass upon such an opportunity for the sake of a dh’oine.”

He leans back against the wall behind him, that coy smile remaining on his lips as he watched Roche think over his options. It wasn’t the most comfortable position to sit when your hands were still cuffed, and the rock was very cold upon his bare skin. But it gave a certain air of victory to sit this way and thus the elf couldn’t resist the opportunity.

Roche still hadn’t returned his clothes, not even his undershirt. Even if it was clear the commander had been going through them to look for concealed weapons, the Temerian lilies emblem was once again hanging on his chest.

“Move, whoreson, or I’ll-.”

“What, you’ll make me? You still need my help, Vernon Roche. Toss me on the floor and I might be so inclined as to simply not put my life at the line for your cause.”

Roche curses under his breath and glares at him for a spell. Then he begrudgingly begins to trudge around the room, lighting candles and turning on a fire in the makeshift fireplace. This doesn’t make the room bathe in light or anything, but it’s a lot more pleasing to see in the dim light than it had been, sitting in the pitch dark.

Iorveth watches Roche as he grumbling ruffles around in his desk’s drawers, cursing about the moved papers and stubs his foot against the chair. Then the Temerian commander pulls out a bottle, triumphant smile upon his face. A petty Iorveth hadn’t seen it before, he wouldn’t say no to a stiff drink right now. He could do with some distraction from his predicament.

“Want some?” Roche grunts after a few swigs on the bottle, holding it over towards Iorveth from where he sat on the chair by the desk.

“I wouldn’t say no. But my hands seem to be otherwise bound.” Iorveth snarks, rolling his eyes.

Roche gets up from his chair and sits back down on the side of the bed, making it dip. Then the bottle is moved to Iorveth’s lips, and the dh’oine tips it slowly. The liquid burns as it goes down, Iorveth would say it most likely was strong vodka. Really strong, and really good. The kind of shit that knocks you out if you drink the entire bottle on your own, so he’d have to be careful. Drinking always have a tendency to loosen people’s tongues. A lot quicker even than with torture.

They drink in silence, neither having much to say as the bottle is passed back and forth. Well, Roche is holding it, but he keeps giving Iorveth sips between his own and as predicted, it doesn’t take very long at all until Iorveth has a very nice and pleasant buzz in his head and can barely feel the cold of the rock behind his back anymore. Roche is swaying a bit where he sits on the edge of the bed and it makes Iorveth snigger in amusement.

“Something funny, elf.”

“I heard you dh’oine has somewhat of a bad tolerance, but we have drank… what? Half of a bottle each and you already have difficulties to sit straight. I find that amusing.”

“Shut your whore mouth,” Roche growls as he pushes off the bed, “I got no difficulties…”

The commander nearly fell over his own boots, but quickly straightens up and very slowly makes his way towards the desk again. He’d probably trying to walk as straight as he can, to prove his own words but… Iorveth can still see him swaying and he hopes Roche will fall on his ass, at least once.

The dh’oine doesn’t fall though, but he does slam the bottle too hard into his desk, as if the affronting piece of furniture had been unexpectedly high up. Iorveth can’t really see what he does next since he can only see Roche’s back. But when he turns, Roche is holding another bottle.

“We are going to… drink this, and we’ll see who has the best…”

“Tolerance, is the word I think you seek.”

“Shut up.”

Iorveth honest to the gods, laugh. He can’t stop it, as he would usually have done. This time, the laugh just bubbles out of him. So, maybe, he is too a bit more drunk than he’d have expected. That bottle was a strong one, so it wouldn’t be strange. But at the same time, he finds himself not caring two fucks about it, they are _both_ drunk. This is no interrogation.

“You tell me that a lot, dh’oine.”

“You talk a lot.” Roche bites back. “Drink.”

Iorveth won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and happily drinks as Roche tips the bottle to his lips at the same time as he’s sitting down. This, results in the bottle slipping from Iorveth’s lips and some of the liquid spilling down onto his chest before Roche manages to tilt it back up. Both of them curses at this, Iorveth because he wasn’t exactly fond of alcohol running down his chin and chest. Roche because he didn’t like to see expensive alcohol go to waste.

Whatever Iorveth had expected, it wasn’t Roche diving in and **_licking_** a long stripe over his exposed chest. The unexpected move makes Iorveth gasp. The quick tendril of alcohol replaced by hot tongue from the lining of his breeches up to his collarbone and then the chill air that followed in the path where Roche’s tongue had just been.

The lick doesn’t stop until it’s up to Iorveth’s chin and he can see Roche’s eyes blown wide in front of him. Fuck, he wanted that. He wanted the dh’oine to do it again and again, to do more, to go for kisses and touches, nips and bites.

The special forces commander seems a bit disoriented for half a moment, looking as if he’s about to pull away from him again. But instead, the disorientation and confusion turns into a sly grin as Roche tips the bottle again, making more alcohol slip down Iorveth’s chest. The commander once again quickly diving after it.

Iorveth hisses and drops his head heavily back against the wall, giving up a throaty groan. His hands and arms are flexing behind his back, wanting nothing more than to grab into the stupid piece of cloth Roche has on his head and throw it away. He wanted to guide Roche and his warm tongue across his chest and then ever down.

How long was it since he’d indulged in an act of sex? True, elves didn’t have very high sex drives, their nature was slow and elven women didn’t bleed as often as human women, making a high sex drive in the men unnecessary. But right now? Iorveth’s libido was switched onto hard working. His cock was starting to tent his breeches and he found it hard not to shift around.

“Fuck, dh’oine!” He growls, trying to get free. “Uncuff me.”

Roche, who had been swirling his tongue lazily over Iorveth’s left nipple, looks up, tongue still flat to Iorveth’s chest. There’s a thought process in the dh’oine, an excruciatingly slow one, and Iorveth shifts his hips up a little. He’s trying to make his point of wishing to use his hands, but it seems for naught.

“Why the hell would I do that, elf?” Drawls Roche out slowly, shifting up and away from Iorveth’s chest, only to straddle his hips, making himself comfortable in his lap, pressing down over his aching cock. “This is a good look on you, tied up to my mercy.”

Iorveth is about to retort with some snarky comment about mercy and handcuffs… But Roche has already taken a deep swig on the bottle, then pushed in for a rough kiss. It’s hard and biting, prying his mouth open only to share the drink. Mixed with the taste of Roche, it’s even quite tasty if he had to be honest.

Even if the kiss is all well and nice, Iorveth even enjoying the prolonged kiss and the taste of Roche, he still bites down a stinging bite on Roche’s lower lip. It serves its purpose to make Roche pull out of the kiss. Leaving Iorveth with a few precious moments of swallowing and catching his breath before trying to convince the commander to let him loose.

“Dh’oine, uncuff me.” He grunts once again.

But his sour look only holds for but a moment. Roche is fumbling with the laces and buckles of his blue coat. He gives up quickly though and begins pulling and tearing the affronting fabric over his head. It takes a bit, but in the end, it unceremoniously drops to the floor, head chaperone included, leaving him as bare as Iorveth already was.

Now, Iorveth had never seen Roche’s hair before, but he’d imagined it would be cut short, maybe even shaved under that stupid thing. Turns out, he’s wrong. Roche’s hair is looking soft, chestnut brown, reaching at least to his rounded ears. It’s thick and looking to be in surprisingly good condition. The rest of Roche isn’t anything to frown at either, scarred here and there, but the muscles of a warrior no doubt.

“So, that’s how to shut you up?” Roche asks with a grin, leaning in close to Iorveth’s face. “Sleeping with a human, that what turns you on?”

Roche grinds his hips down against Iorveth’s straining erection when he speaks, and it serves to make Iorveth curse out a groan. It wasn’t that he wanted to have sex with dh’oines, but he’d been curious about sex with Roche for quite some time now. Maybe the thrill of Roche being such an opposite to himself, maybe because he thought Roche didn’t look half bad. He wasn’t sure why, he just knew he wanted to.

“Will you shut up and get on with it?” Iorveth grunts, not answering the dh’oine and his question.

Roche reaches for the bottle and takes another swig of it before putting it back on the box serving as a nightstand. It’s a feeling of relief running through his entire body when Roche’s lips are back on his own. Sharing desperately attacking kisses that makes his entire body sparkle in eagerness and excitement.

This time when Roche tries for access to Iorveth’s mouth, it goes a lot smoother. The elf gladly accepts Roche’s tongue, licking and tasting while buckling his hips up against the dh’oine in in his lap. In turn, Roche grinds down against him, pressing his chest up close to Iorveth’s. The stickiness from the alcohol and saliva is still there, rubbing off on Roche. Not that either of them actually cares at the moment.

Roche’s arms slip over Iorveth’s shoulders, pulling the elf closer. Iorveth pulls away from the kisses, trailing new ones as good as he can over Roche’s jaw and down his neck. He bites down at the junction of Roche neck and shoulder, leaving a nice angry bitemark that won’t go away for at least a week. It makes Roche moan out a curse, grinding down extra hard.

“Dammit, elf, you better not leave any marks.” Roche growls.

“I would never.” Iorveth says with a coy grin.

He quietly inspects the mark of his own teeth for a spell. It looks nice there, a little mark that says this dh’oine has been had by him. With a little hum, he continues kissing, licking and nipping over Roche’s neck and shoulders, sucking more marks here and there but refrains from further biting.

Roche hasn’t stayed idle while Iorveth has been attacking his neck and shoulders with kisses. His calloused fingers have been mapping out the scars covering his back and sides, and now they were rising until they slip in under the red fabric Iorveth has wrapped around his head to cover the bad eye.

Iorveth quickly pulls away from Roche’s searching fingers. Looking away from the commander with a tight expression.

“Let it be dh’oine.”

There is none of his regular bite in his voice. He doesn’t want this to stop and if Roche sees the full state of which his face is in? Well, things like these had stopped before because of the hideous scar left on his face. He was lucky to have survived it, but it did not make him very pretty.

But Roche seems resolute in his task. He reaches his hands out once again, stroking both over Iorveth’s jaws, then slipping them up with skilled fingers until he’s pulled the bandana off. Iorveth just grits his teeth and tries to move his head away so Roche would only see the good side of his face.

However, Roche won’t allow it, his hold on his jaw tightens and forces Iorveth to tilt his head the other way.

Roche’s calloused fingers slowly follows along the jagged scar, as the commander inspects the ugly wound. Iorveth can’t see his hand, but he can feel Roche’s every stroke and movement of fingers. He can feel Roche stroke his thumb just underneath the missing eye, then over the eyebrow. It’s a nice sensation, and Iorveth allows a moment of vulnerability, closing his functional eye and trusting Roche not to do anything stupid.

Without any kind of warning other than a small shift in Roche’s posture; Roche crashes into him with a rough heavy kiss. Possessive is the word Iorveth would have used to describe such a kiss was it delivered by anyone else. The surprise attack has made Iorveth gasp and open his eye again, quick to respond and push into the kiss.

“Uncuff me.” Iorveth once again demands, wanting to touch and more importantly, getting Roche out of his damned clothes.

“Shut up, elf.” Roche huffs back against his lips.

Iorveth sends him a halfhearted glare, but it doesn’t last long. Just a moment later, Roche pulls off him, entirely, leaving Iorveth cold and aching for the dh’oine to come back. But Roche is busy to rid himself of the rest of his clothes and Iorveth isn’t about to prevent him from getting a naked commander back.

As he watches Roche’s undergarments fall to the floor, he tilts his head the slightest. True to what he had heard told about the dh’oine, they are broad. Not necessarily bigger, Iorveth was himself probably a bit longer even if his own prick was sleeker.

“What’s the look, elf?”

“Never seen a dh’oine out of his pants before. I’m now wholly disappointed.”

Roche just snorts amused, a testimony that they were still drunk in itself. Then the commander takes another big swig from the bottle, offers some more to Iorveth, _who happily accepts of course,_ before putting it away, missing the table but not caring as the bottle rolls over the floor since it’s empty nonetheless.

Not much time is wasted after that. Roche turns out to be a lot more efficient on pants than he is on jackets and armor and when the commander finally comes back to his lap again, they are both naked as the day they were born.

Iorveth hisses out a curse when Roche accidentally grabs his injured shoulder. But it’s quickly followed by a groan as Roche immediately starts to grind down at him again, rubbing their hard dicks together. This time, finally, without any offending fabric between the both of them.

Iorveth isn’t the only one leaking with precum already. He has been for a while now and suddenly having Roche’s cock rubbing against his own is a blessing all in itself. Gasping and moaning, the both men starts to set a somewhat slow pace of grinding and rolling their hips together. Roche panting as if his life was depending on it.

One could think that the lack of his ability to use his arms would somewhat hinder Iorveth from acting. But it’s far from the case. He easily pushes up against Roche, chest to chest and eagerly continues his earlier pass time of kissing and biting Roche’s shoulders and neck. Groaning against Roche’s skin as the dh’oine wraps his hand around them both and starts stroking.

“I’ve heard…” Roche growls by his ear, so close he can feel the breath to the shell, “that elven stamina is nothing to scoff at.”

“If you are asking If I can last longer than you, dh’oaah! Fuck!”

He buckles up hard against Roche, moaning out loud. The son of a bitch has just bitten down on the tip of his left ear. Well, if Roche didn’t know about elven ears and their sensitivity, he sure as fuck knows about it now. And he doesn’t let that information go to waste for even a second.

The brutal onslaught of kisses, nips and licks that suddenly assaults his ear, has Iorveth arch and squirm as far as his bondage allows it. He stretches his fingers, flexes his muscles both in arms and chest. It’s the most he can do with his wrists still shackled.

At least he can retaliate by biting another angry mark into Roche’s other shoulder.

It makes Roche gasp against his ear, hurrying the speed up of his hands still stroking between them. Iorveth can feel Roche twitch and spasm, his dick taut and ready. Three more strokes were all it took for Roche to cum, hard and heavy between them while crying out a strangled gurgling sound.

Heavy ropes of white spills out all over Roche’s hand and onto their chests, pooling down on Iorveth who was comfortably still seated underneath Roche. Roche’s head lolls to Iorveth’s uninjured shoulder and Iorveth groans loudly when the movements of Roche’s hand stops.

Even if Roche was done, Iorveth sure as fuck isn’t. His prick is still hard and willing and Iorveth pushes up against Roche’s hand the best he can to gain some friction.

“Roche, rach!” He growls, voice low and rough, still panting hard.

“Fuck… gimme a moment...” Roche slurs.

Iorveth though, doesn’t feel like giving a moment, and buckles up again, making Roche curse out loud. What better, it makes Roche’s spent cock twitch in interest again. Iorveth repeats the movement, returns to biting and nipping at Roche’s shoulder and neck, grinning victoriously when he finally manages to make Roche moan again.

“Rach.” Iorveth orders again.

But Roche doesn’t let the control pass over that easily and Iorveth curses loudly in the elder speech when the damn dh’oine bites down hard on his ear again. It draws a chuckle from the commander and then Roche leaves! Just fucking ups and goes.

Iorveth is ready to curse him and the entire race of the human kind. But Roche returns as quickly as he’d left, this time with a vial containing something looking suspiciously much like sword oil. But when the cork is popped open it releases the scent of olives, meaning olive oil. A much better option in a situation like this. At least as long as the oil is going where he hopes it’s going.

And as it turns out, it does.

Iorveth watches as Roche pours some of the oil onto his fingers, making the elf’s heart pick up even further in pace, breath going slightly more labored. He watches the commander slowly and a bit uncertainly slip his hand behind his back and then how his eyes closes. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ This better not be teasing, because Iorveth’s cock was getting impossibly aching hard, twitching and begging for attention.

It’s plain to see that Roche hasn’t done this before. At least not on himself. He keeps shifting around, trying to get a better reach, a better angle, which in turn makes it hard for Iorveth to pull his eyes from Roche’s chest as muscles flexes and bounces to compliment his movements.

Another easy tell that this was the first time for the commander is the startled look and surprised gasp once he finally hit the bundle of nerves that is enough to drive you straight to the moon and back if you were skilled.

Iorveth practically have to force Roche to add more fingers before trying to take on his cock. Roche might be his mortal enemy at all other days, but right now they were having sex and Iorveth was a thorough lover no matter companion.

When Roche finally, _and very slowly,_ sinks down on his dick, Iorveth drops his head back against the wall again with a groan, eye half lidded. Tight hot engulfing heat is surrounding him, Roche is every bit as perfect as he’d hoped he’d be.

Through his half-lidded eye, he sees the full body shiver that runs through Roche. He can feel, rather than see, how Roche’s cock has gone back to hard and pulsating where it lies heavily on his lower abdomen and how Roche’s hands are braced against his chest.

It’s difficult to maneuver with his hands still tied behind his back, but he’s given up on trying to get Roche to release him. Besides, right now he couldn’t think of anything worse than Roche leaving this bed to go grab the keys. So, instead, he does the best he can and slowly starts to fuck up into the inviting heat of Vernon Roche. Slow and small jagged movements at first, to ease Roche into it, then slowly adding more speed and strength into it.

They are both panting, sweaty and covered with Roche’s earlier spend. The room is filled of the scent of their coupling, but fuck it, if this wasn’t the most comfortable Iorveth had been in years… he didn’t know what was.

It doesn’t take long for Roche to catch up with the pace Iorveth is setting, bracing himself better against Iorveth’s chest as he fucks himself fast and hard down at Iorveth’s cock. The Temerian would be sore in the morning for sure, and the thought of that drove Iorveth to meet Roche’s fast and hard pace with rough rolls and snaps of his own hips.

It was over all too quick. Roche had leaned in to suck and nibble at his ears once again and Iorveth had repaid him by kissing and biting wherever he could reach. He’d finally found a special spot on Roche’s jaw that had sent the commander crashing suddenly over his tipping point. The clench around his cock had pushed Iorveth into completion, filling his dh’oine up to the edge with his seed.

The next day he might reflect over the use of _‘his dh’oine’_ but now it simply slipped by.

For a long while, they just sat there, together. Utter messes, panting and covered in body fluids while they were trying to return to their bodies. Iorveth had come back too it, finding himself kissing softly over the bruises and bitemarks he’d covered Roche with. Roche had just slumped even heavier against him.

“Gonna have’n clean... the mess…” Roche slurs after a while, still half out of it.

Iorveth is too tired to reply with anything other than a confirming noise and a grunt as Roche gets off him. The temerian gives up a small strangled noise of his own, swaying a little as he stands beside the bed. If it’s because of the drink or the sex that he’s swaying, Iorveth isn’t sure. But the slight wince is definitely from the sex.

Iorveth grins lazily as he watches the tickle of his own spent dribble down Roche’s leg. He’s satisfied. That’s what the feeling is. Satisfied over his work with marking all of Roche’s neck and shoulders up, satisfied with how he had just filled Roche up, satisfied with… well, everything really.

Roche returns to the bed with a rag and a small key. Making quick work of wiping off the worst of their coupling while Iorveth watches. Then, to his tremendous surprise, Roche reaches around him and unlocks the shackles, throwing them aside and allowing him to move his aching limbs.

“Don’t try anything, elf.” Roche grumbles exhaustedly before practically falling onto the bed.

Iorveth rubs his wrists, there are small bruises there but not too bad so there’s that. Trying to escape now really wouldn’t be very effective either. In fact, it would most likely result with his drunken ass getting killed. And there was a nice warm bed right here, with Roche in it. Sex is also very tiring and Iorveth suddenly realizes how tired he actually is.

With his mind finally made up, he shifts around until he’s laying on his back beside Roche. Roche scoots over close, slipping his arm over Iorveth’s chest and Iorveth slips his arm in under Roche so the commander is using his shoulder as a pillow.

Whatever would happen tomorrow, he’d have gotten laid and some well-deserved sleep. Besides, Roche wasn’t too bad… or at least he had a pretty arse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after their shared evening, Roche wakes up with a damned headache.

Hangovers, came in many shapes and sizes. Some people retched for hours before they could even stand and some lucky bastards only shook it off and started on their day. But some, like Roche, felt like they’d been kicked in the face by a horse and every sound was like two little bastards running back and forth banging two pots together while they were proclaiming their undying love for the Emperor of Nilfgard.

That’s how Roche’s morning had started, with a bang at his door. He’d barely even heard whatever it was Ves shouted; but it was something about breakfast or drowners, he wasn’t sure. But seen on the brighter side, at least that meant shit couldn’t get worse.

Or at least so he thought.

With a little groan, the Temerian commander decides to bury his head into the pillow to hide from the bright light that filters through the opening in the roof. His head is swimming, making him slip in and out of consciousness faster than he’s able to make up any coherent thoughts or ideas. Other than; at least it’ll go down soon.

Roche has little to no idea what he was up to last night, but he was fairly sure whatever it was, it could be blamed on Ves. She had given him that first bottle of crappy mead after they’d solved that fight between the men.

He can’t rightly say where he got the rest of the liquor supply for such a headache, and the state his head was in at the moment was simply not one for figuring it out. He would need at least another half an hour to wake his brain up.

Besides, he didn’t feel like he was in a hurry. For once in his miserable time in this damn cave, the morning chill hadn’t managed to crawl into his blankets. Instead he was warm and comfortable, with an arm wrapped around his chest.

_Wait, what?_

Roche’s eyes open quicker than they ever have, suddenly hyper aware where the warmth come from. The arm laying over his side is not the arm of a woman. The hand that lay limp by his chest is calloused, the hand of a sword wielder… or an archer.

_Please, not an archer, or he doesn’t know what he’d do._

There’s soft heaving of silent breaths against his back, breaths that for about ten minutes ago probably matched his own. But his own breaths have quickened up along with his heartbeat and his body had gone stiff under his fears of whom he was sharing bed with.

With all his power, of both will and determination, he refused to look over to the corner where the scoia’tael leader were supposed to be shackled up. As if determination to remember who he was with would make the tide turn in his favor.

_Please don’t be Iorveth._

There were of course a few women in his camp he found beautiful. But the arm, as earlier stated was not the arm of a woman, and they had Ves among them. Nor did he feel the press of a woman’s tits to his back either, just a flat chest. Going further down… well.

As for the men in his camp? None had particularly caught his interests. He enjoyed both, he knew that since old. But it was information that he kept to himself and for good reason. He didn’t need his men to start question his manliness or his ability to lead because of who he fucked.

He bit himself hard in the lip as he opens his eyes once again, slowly. Unwillingly, he looks over to the corner that is pointedly lacking if it’s elven occupant.

**_Fuck._ **

Cursing quietly under his breath, Roche slowly and damn carefully turns around from one side until he’s on the other, face to face with the sleeping scoia’tael leader. That ridiculous bandana of his has been lost somewhere and brown soft looking hair is pooling down over the pillow, some of it obscuring his face.

Roche had wondered sometimes how long Iorveth’s hair would be. He’d have guessed it to be short and unkept, riddled with dirt and fleas from living in the forest. But instead, it’s long enough to reach a bit beyond his shoulders, looking as if it was washed yesterday. Roche can even see small neatly done braids in there, accenting the way his hair naturally flowed.

The rest of the elf’s face is softened by sleep. The usual sour look replaced with one of peaceful slumber, and Roche briefly appreciates just how much younger the elf looks for it. No longer battle hardened and angry with the world.

_It almost makes the elf pretty, almost._

The scar though, it’s the first time Roche sees more than what usually peaks out from under the red cloth. It reaches to his eye, as Roche had suspected. But he is admittedly half surprised to find that the eye really is gone; again, wonderous of how a one-eyed archer could hit his goal every time. The scar doesn’t make the elf look ugly… defined, interesting. Not ugly.

“Paint yourself a picture Roche, it’ll last you longer.” Iorveth says in that lazy kind of way, as if he was the cat who swallowed the canary.

Roche startles back at that, not prepared for the elf to be awake, less speaking to him. The bed though, really isn’t a big bed and the surprised move makes him fall ass first to the floor, where he makes several discoveries. First off, he’s naked. The second thing is the hiss he lets out over a surprising pain to his backside.

_What the fucking hell happened last night?_

He quickly gets up from the cold floor and looks around for his clothes. They are strewn around all over the place, mixed with Iorveth’s clothes. But his pants are stubbornly nowhere to be found.

Iorveth has the audacity to laugh lightly from the bed, stretching out lazy as a cat before he rolls onto his back. Roche’s eyes had lingered a bit too long where the blankets had slipped down, just barely hiding Iorveth’s modesty… Oh he had a feeling he knew exactly what had happened last night.

A memory flashes for him; _He is straddled over the elf’s cock, hands firmly planted on his chest to keep the balance. Wanton he’s gasping and moaning as Iorveth’s hips snaps up to meet with the grinding Roche does._

**_Fuck._ **

His face is burning up, he’s sure of it. Any moment now, he’d simply self-combust and vanish into flames, turning into dust. Not only because of the very vivid memory, but because the damn thing had made his flaccid cock twitch in interest. While he was standing naked. Naked in front of Iorveth.

“If you want a second go, dh’oine. You just have to ask.” Iorveth purrs, low and lazy.

The son of a whore! Clearly, he’s enjoying this whole thing. Why? Why would he be enjoying this? Iorveth should be at least as mortified as Roche was over their s _hared_ endeavor. Roche was as much of an enemy to Iorveth, as Iorveth was an enemy to him. Or maybe the elf liked sleeping with his enemies before putting an arrow in their backs?

“Shut it whoreson.” He snaps.

“That wasn’t a no.” Iorveth points out.

Roche clenches his jaw tight and rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s still suffering from the damn headache, even if it is slowly going down. Why wasn’t Iorveth suffering from a mortal headache? Why wasn’t Roche telling the damn elf to sod off? Or even better, stab him. Anything to wipe that smirk off his face as he lays stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head.

But then again, he supposed he could understand it.

They’d already had sex once, what difference would it make if they fucked again? Got out some frustrations, maybe even getting the elf out of his head once and for all. Gods knew Iorveth was taking too much space in there. But this time, he sure as fuck wouldn’t let the elf have his way with him again. If there was any ploughing to do, he was going to be the one doing it.

There was a light stagger in his steps as he began moving back to the bed. His cock already semi-hard and will made up. He hopes to the fucking gods that this will make the stiffness in his body go away. No way he’d let anyone know he’d slept with Iorveth, not even Ves.

Iorveth grins at him, pushing himself up on his elbows in a half sitting kind of position. Just waiting for him… smug fucking bastard. But Roche has other plans today. He wouldn’t be sitting on the elf’s cock, not this time… even if it was a shapely hard cock underneath the blanket.

Instead, he pushes the elf back into the mattress and the pillows and kneels between his legs. He hoped this would make Iorveth look less cocky, that the scoia’tael would show any sign of surprise or even concern.

But of course, the whoreson only grins wider at him, stretching out and fucking flexing. Son of a whore. By now, Roche is equal parts horny as he’s annoyed. But he’s definitely made up his mind and his annoyance level was sinking for the minute. He was going to fuck the scoia’tael commander and then they’d go on hating each other’s guts. As if nothing had ever happened between them.

The whole thing goes surprisingly smoothly. Roche is delighted to find that Iorveth is a lot less cocky with two fingers scissoring inside him. It even gives way for Roche to appreciate that Iorveth is probably among the most attractive people he’s ever had underneath him. Especially when he starts to gasp and moan in pace with Roche’s own labored breath.

The scar in his face serving only to differ him from his other bed partners. But Roche still doesn’t find it ugly.

Once Roche is sheeted fully and deep in Iorveth’s heat, all his annoyance is gone for the thrill of the moment. Their hands are laced against the pillows over Iorveth’s head. One of the elf’s legs are hitched high over his hip and they are both breathing into open-mouthed, filthy kisses.

“Never figured you for a hand holder.” Iorveth teases, out of breath but still teasing.

“Never figured you’d let a human fuck you.” Roche retorts, no actual bite or ill meaning behind his words.

Iorveth chuckles lightly, but Roche cuts the sound off with a small snap of hips into the elf’s heat, drawing out a groan from the both of them. Roche can’t remember a time where he’d felt this… casual, in bed before. He isn’t trying to blow Iorveth’s mind, he isn’t trying to impress the elf, they’re just fucking and it’s nice.

“Well, I did have sex with Gwynbleidd. Suppose he’s close enough to a dh’oine to ease me into it.” Iorveth says lazily, eye filled of mischief.

“You had sex with Geralt?”

Roche is surprised to say the least. He thought the witcher only went for women. The man had a type, clearly, and that type was sorceresses. Not elves. There is also something crazy deep inside him that has him pushing a sudden hard thrush into Iorveth. The scoia’tale groans loudly before chuckling underneath him.

“Vernon Roche, are you in fact, jealous?” The elf taunts.

“Shut up elf.” Roche breaths out through grit teeth.

Iorveth is clearly about to say something, to tease him most like. But Roche won’t allow it, instead he starts to move abruptly inside the damned devil. It’s fast and rough, hitting home over and over into the inviting heat, still holding Iorveth’s hands, sharing sloppy kisses while fucking him into the mattress.

Of course, this is when shit goes to hell.

There is another hard knock on the door, then without further due, it opens. Usually, this is the announcement of Ves whenever he’s been sleeping a bit too long. And sure enough, there she fucking is. And of course, this is the day of all days she wasn’t alone by the door. The damn medic is standing by her side, probably to change bandages on the elf that is currently underneath him.

Both of them entirely still.

“Roche, a runner came back with word from… What the fuck?”

“Oh dear…”

Roche is at loss for words, for thought process, for anything. His brain just blanks as he stares in terror at his second in command. This, was **not** happening. Frozen in place, he was just barely aware that Iorveth was having a smirk on his stupid pretty face.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Iorveth says with a chuckle in his voice.

“Shut up elf!” Roche growls, somewhere finding his voice.

“How will you make me?” Iorveth purrs teasing.

“How far does that tattoo-.” Ves begins.

“Out!”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out.” Iorveth hums mischievous.

“Ves! Out!”

There is a faint laughter from Ves as the door slams shut again, leaving them alone once more. Leaving Roche space to heavily drop his head against Iorveth’s shoulder. This was the worst day ever, and the damned elf was… making it both worse and better at the same time and it was driving him up the damn walls.

However, would anyone pass Roche’s bedroom door, just a few minutes after the incident, they’d be able to hear laugh mixed moans from the scoia’tael leader, along with grunts and groans by the commander as he was trying to get the elf under control by fucking him extra hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I'm really thankful for y'all reading and commenting and giving me kudos! <3 You are amazing and thank you for sticking with me through this story! *hands out free cookies*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with old friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update y'all! School swooped in and kicked my ass! Hope y'll enjoy this though!

“It’s called the Passiflora. It’s an ehm…”

“Whorehouse, I know the place. This isn’t my first visit to the free city.”

Iorveth and Roche were both standing in the shade of some trees, watching the city gates from afar. The sun was still not high on the sky, but it was already warm, thankfully though, the breeze was keeping the humidity at bay. Even from such a far position as they were, Iorveth could still hear the bustling of the busy city, the water that splashed and squashed around it.

Iorveth had missed the sounds of nature the most.

Of course, time spent in Roche’s camp hadn’t been all bad. The sex for example had been rather relaxing and he would never say no to sassing and snarking dh’oine. Especially this dh’oine whom he now had the means to turn as red as a tomato by merely making suggestive remarks.

It hadn’t been too bad, but he had missed his freedom.

Roche had been kind enough not to chain him up again after their little bout in the hay, but he’d been restricted to the small area of Roche’s bedroom. Whilst that had aided him in feeling less of a prisoner, he’d still been caught in a cage with no other escape than the whims of his captor. Or death, and he certainly had nod been ready to die quite yet.

“Well, how the hell should I know? It’s not like you could just walk into cities and villages as you please. You might not be a priority, but you are still a wanted man.”

“You would be surprised the places I get in, Vernon Roche.” Replies the elf with a sly smile.

“Shut your whore mouth.”

“Is that all you have to say to me? And here I thought you had sof-.”

Roche has pressed him up against the trunk of the tree, effectively cutting off his words with hard biting kisses. Not that you’d ever find Iorveth disagree on those. His hands easily find their way to the Temerian’s hips to tug him closer until their bodies meet.

Iorveth still doesn’t know what they have between them. He isn’t even sure he’d want to actually define it with words, wasn’t sure he wanted it to be more than sex, and at times frustrated angry kisses. The moment they were done with this whole ordeal with the assassination, they would be back on opposites sides once more.

“I will take the Oxenfurt gate, less guarded than the others. Make sure no one follows you once you reach the-.”

“Are you giving me a lecture on secrecy?” Asks Iorveth with amusement in his voce as he shakes his head the slightest. “Not just an elf, but me. Do you know how many villages and cities I got into even while my face was upon every poster?”

“Shut up elf.” Roche grumbles in annoyance, still pressed up close.

“Try not to get killed dh’oine. It would be a shame if your death would come out of stupidity before I had the chance.”

It’s said halfhearted, Iorveth long ago ceased to wish for Roche’s death. With their time spent the last few days and the way the commander was pressed up against him right now… well, he even found he would be upset if something were to happen to him. A silly notion, he knew, but there he was.

And that’s why he didn’t want a name on whatever their thing was. It couldn’t be drawn further than it had already been pulled. He wasn’t going to allow that.

Roche just huffs at him and pushes away, but there’s a very real blush tinting his face as he grumbles something suspiciously like _“You neither, elf.”_ Before the commander stalks away towards the Northern gate into the city.

Iorveth watches Roche’s hips for a while as the dh’oine goes, a lazy smile splayed ay his lips, making the scar go a little crooked. Say whatever you wished of the race of men, but this particular one did have a nice ass.

* * *

 

Getting into Nivigrad was already a difficult task for any person without a permit. Now add on that Iorveth was an elf, then that Iorveth was… well, Iorveth. It was practically impossible to get himself into the city by any of the gates... But there were more ways than those to get into the closed city.

Luck has it that most of the cities this side of the world was built over ancient elven ruins and with wide sewer systems that ran underneath the entire city. If you knew how to navigate through them, it made for the perfect path to get into the city without having to run across any guards.

However, being as it was, there was in fact a fine reason why the sewers weren’t stationed with guards to protect the city from unwanted attacks. The entire sewer system was a magnet for necrophages who were drawn to the stench of rotting bodies and other filth you could find down there.

Iorveth had to carve his way through more drowners than he’d ever bloody wished for ever even seeing. He would never understand how Gwynbleidd, or any other witcher for that matter, did this for a living. No one could possibly ever find this _enjoyable._

And still, when he’d somehow managed to cut his way through the sewers with nothing more than a few scratches, it turns out that the sewers might actually be the easy part of this damned mission. Not even three seconds after stepping out into daylight once more, he’d been attacked. It was those goddamn witch hunters. Dh’oine even worse than the blue stripes, the scum of the scum who loved to inflict pain in others more than they loved their own damn wenches.

They hadn’t proved too much of an effort for him though. He’d been high on adrenaline from fighting those drowners and they had been unprepared that he’d appear where he did. Three arrows and a hard stab with his sword later, and he’d put them all to the ground. Since the sewers had served for a good spot to dumping bodies, he’d simply kicked theirs there as well. Usually he wouldn’t have cared, but this time he hadn’t wanted anyone to start asking questions and possibly block his best exit route for when he needed it later.

Of course, there are other ways to escape, but in a hurry, he’d prefer to know where to go and he’d already cleaned out the worst of the filth living down there. It would take a couple of days before new drowners decided it was place worth living.

Iorveth knows he’s in somewhat of a time frame, they were supposed to meet with someone at the Passiflora who were to be part of their plans. But this doesn’t stop him from taking a detour in search of a certain elven blacksmith.

His own blades were in high due for some repairs. The sharpness wasn’t what it had once been and the handles needed some care as well. Who better to fix them than the elf who’d once made them? By the quality of his blades, and for how long he’d used them, it had been plain to see that Hattori was indeed a master of the craft.

Iorveth had thought about seeking him up for quite some time, ever since he’d heard the rumors about Hattori living in Novigrad. But he hadn’t found the time to do so, and even then, as stated earlier, it was difficult to sneak into the city unseen. Even for the possibility of his blades being repaired properly.

Since he was already in the city though, he decides to search for the master of the craft. However, the building he slips into does not at all look even the slightest like a smithy. In fact, he’s offered dumplings by a very stressed looking Hattori rather than a haggle over the cost of his blades.

“So, what happened to the forge?” Asks Iorveth, while chewing at an admittedly delicious dumpling. “As I remember, you burned as hot for your craft as the fire that created it.”

Hattori was watching Iorveth’s blade, weighing it in his hands and touching the places it had gone jagged with time and use. “Oh it’s… it’s dumplings now… the rest is a very long story.” The smith says, ears and cheeks tainting red.

“I am in no hurry.” Iorveth motions with a hand for the smith to keep talking.

“It’s all because of that swiving Van Hoorn… was I to pick up my craft, I would surely end up crippled on the side of the street. And that’s with luck.”

“Bloode dh’one.”

“I can nothing but agree. I tried to strike a deal with the king of beggar’s men for supplies but…” Hattori’s voice goes quiet.

“Yes?” Urges Iorveth to hear the rest of this story.

“He demanded an ungodly amount of my profit and I lack the… skill, to negotiate with them I’m afraid.” Sighs Hattori as he sits heavily on one of the tables.

There’s an opportunity here, Iorveth suddenly sees it. His scoia’tael unit could do with proper weaponry, chainmail, light armor, steady steel that wouldn’t break. Buying such things were as expensive as buying fresh spice from Nazair. They mostly picked their equipment off the foe they defeated.

But if he was to help the smith out, surely, they could strike a deal on a hefty discount.

“Arrange a meeting with this dh’oine. After dark mind you, moving in the city during the day is proving a challenge. I shall help you, and in return, my scoia’tael get a discount on your wares.

“You would… you would do this, for me? Of course! Discount would be surely yours!”

Iorveth stands up from the bench he’s been seated and grips Hattori’s arm in a sealing of the deal. Roche would surely not be too happy over him sticking around in the city, but Iorveth didn’t really care, and there was not much the dh’oine could do to hinder him.

“Meet me by the docks around midnight. I shall have the meeting arranged by then.” Hattori says eagerly.

“I shall meet with you there.”

And with that, they part. Iorveth is given a small bag of dumplings before he steps out into the fresh air again. If this deal worked out, it could certainly turn the tide into scoia’tael favor. Many in his unit had swords that had seen too much battle and too few repairs. Well made and light armors would save many a life. With that, their attacks could grow bolder and survival would grow more imminent.

With Radovid out of the way, this could prove crucial for what came after.

* * *

 

It was rather the late afternoon, or early evening once finally Iorveth finally found a gap wide enough in the shift of guards to be able to slip into the Passiflora unseen. The witch hunters and the guards had been annoyingly thorough and that had made him several hours late.

Had it been a meeting with one of his own people he might even have felt bad about it.

Alas, it was better he came late than for him to take unnecessary risks or starting a riot to cover his entrance, or simply not show up at all. The madam of the house didn’t even question, she simply showed him the way to a flight of hidden stairs and told him he would find who he seek up at the top.

As he climbed the stairs he could hear muffled voices. One he wasn’t certain of, the other definitely Roche and the third… my, my. He hadn’t imagined Gwynbleidd to have join them in this little adventure. He quietly wonders if that was who they were supposed to meet or if it was simply Geralt’s usual habit of finding trouble no matter where he went.

Whichever the reason for the witcher being there, they were clearly speaking about Radovid and how he was a danger for not only the people living in Novigrad, but for Yenifer and Triss. He supposed that was a way to make Geralt interested in a subject… even if he had information saying that the sorceresses were perhaps not where his priorities lied at the moment.

In perfect silence, he steps into the room and makes his way over to Geralt, clapping his hand to his shoulder. Something he’d never had been foolish to do would he not have been certain Geralt had in fact heard him coming. He’d accidentally surprised the witcher once and nearly lost his head for it and wasn’t eager of doing so again.

“Gwynbleidd.” He says in greeting.

“Iorveth? Not sure I’m supposed to be surprised or not to see you here.”

“The planned death of a deranged dh’oine king? I would have a hard time to stay away.”

There’s a lazy smile on his lips that he happens to know makes his scar a bit crooked. But he’d never really been self-conscious about his scar around Geralt. Perhaps for the fact that the wither had so many scars of his very own.

“Where in the blazes did you get off to?” Says Roche, annoyance lacing his voice.

Iorveth wasn’t sure he actually saw what he saw, but Roche seemed to be glaring at the hand that he still had laid upon Geralt’s shoulder. But Roche couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he? Yes, Iorveth had told that he had a past with the witcher, but that was history. Besides, what he had with Roche… they’d just fucked and that was it. Teasing and messing had been a fun relaxation while he’d been caught like a rat in a trap but they weren’t… anything more than that.

“Had I known you’d miss my pretty face, I’d have come faster.” He says lazily, smirk on his lips.

“Shut your mouth whoreson.”

“I do love a good love story.” Dijkstra says, “but if you are quite finished, we actually have important matter to take care of, for fucks sake.”

Iorveth waves his hand a little dismissive to show he was done. Then he quietly moves over to the window to look for trouble while he was listening to Dijkstra as he filled Geralt in about some contact in the Redanian army.

Outside, the sun was painting the tops of the buildings in a warm red as darkness was slowly creeping up ever wider on the still buzzing street. The last purchases for the day were being made and people were heading to their homes or to different taverns. A witch hunter was harassing some dh’oine at the corner and some children was being pushed on by their mother. A regular day in a shitty city.

“Fine, I’ll talk to Gregoire.” Iorveth hears Geralt say, having been so lost in thought that he’d barely heard anything that had been said.

“Thank you. And try not to draw too much attention… if you can. Remember, the future hinges on the success of this mission. The future of Temeria, the future of the North.”

“I know, I’ll try not to fuck it up.”

“We’re counting on you, Geralt.”

Iorveth turns around to look at the witcher, he actually need a separate favor from the man. He assumed that Geralt had no trouble getting in and out through the main gates and he needed a message sent to his scoia’tael unit.

“Gwynbleidd, before you leave, might I have a word?”

Geralt nods at his request as Iorveth motions for the door to the other room. He is aware of Roche glaring at them both, but he ignores it for now. There’s even a small thrill in it, how upset Roche had been over such a simple and quite frankly, innocent request. Iorveth will make sure to tease him about it later.

“Sooo, you and Roche, huh.” Geralt says in that way of his, small grin splaying on his face.

“Leave my bed habits to me and I will be quiet of your dalliances with the emperor.” Iorveth easily return without much bite to his words.

“How the hell did you even…” Iorveth hadn’t really seen Geralt get shocked before, nice to know what it looked like.

“I got my ways, and my spies. But that is not to the point. There is a scoia’tael unit not too far from where you are headed, I would ask you to bring them a message. I need one of my best scouts and two of my finest warriors to meet me by the clearing of the sparrows.”

“Can’t you just go yourself?”

“Could you convince Roche he should trust me that much?”

“Fine, something else I should say?”

“No, they will without a doubt be on edge given my absence, so give them this and do not antagonize them.”

Iorveth pulls out one of his smaller knives and hands it over. It’s nothing special, just a dagger that he’d carved some symbols into. But he always sent it with messengers that were not traditionally seen as trusted so they would know the message to be true.

“How did that happen by the way, you and Roche?” Geralt asks as he pockets the knife.

“Va fail Gwynbleidd.”

“Fine, fine, keep your secrets. Have to ask you though, have you seen an ashen haired woman around?”

“Zireael?”  

“You saw her?”

“Not personally, no. But another unit reported on seeing an ashen haired woman at Crows perch a while past. The thought did admittedly hit me but I had other things to handle at the time.”

Iorveth had been busy clearing out a good enough spot for their unit to keep for their own to be able to go and learn more. Besides, it hadn’t seemed important at the time, perhaps that was something he’d live to regret.

“She was there for a while, but she supposedly came to Novigrad and ended up in trouble. But I think she might have ended up on Skellige.”

“Would you need my help Gwynbleidd… I still owe you a debt for saving Saskia.”

“Wouldn’t say no to someone keeping their eyes open.”

“Of course. Good luck finding her.”

Geralt nods, and with that, they part. Iorveth stays in the room for a moment, thinking. If Zireael was back, big things were certainly about to happen. The emperor had been asked to abdicate, he knew that already, but this way he’d still have blood in the imperial seat. It was something they would have to put into consideration for future plans…

But for now, there was a certain blacksmith that needed his help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who are still reading! I hope not to take such a long time updating the next time and that the amount of text makes up for it! 
> 
> Next up; Possessive Roche.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making deals and possessive lovers.

The late night had carried somewhat of a chill into the city. The sky above them were filled of twinkling stars, the moon lighting up the streets and houses with its soft blue light wherever torches did not reach. The peace and quiet of night was making the city so much more bearable to stand and less guards were to be found wandering the streets.

Iotveth could even have come to appreciate the sight of the sleeping city… were it not for the fact that he had to walk every shit muddled street and back alley he could find simply to avoid the damn witch hunters and the Redanian soldiers that were still on and about on the streets. Lesser than during the day, that was true. But still enough to make things difficult for one who wished to remain unseen.

“So, where is this blacksmith of yours? It’s midnight already.” Another less pleasing factor, was that Roche had joined him.

The Temerian commander had simply refused to let him go alone once he’d figured Iorveth had other plans than to leave the city. He had claimed that just for the fact that they were no longer in the blue stripes camp didn’t make him less of a prisoner. Roche had no plans to simply let Iorveth go in case he’d make up an ambush on Roche’s soldiers.

“If you are in such a hurry, you could easily leave.” Iorveth points out with a little roll of his eyes.

“I just don’t like to be out in the streets like this. And I told you already, if you believe I would let you leave to get your people to attack mine, then you’re sor-!”

Iorveth didn’t even give him the chance to finish his dull rant. Instead he pins Roche up against the wooden wall behind him and presses close. His lips landing on Roche’s in a way to shut him up already. It works too, highly efficiently he might add.

Roche’s hands grab onto his hips, pulling him in even closer. The biting kisses that had been more of a fight for dominance turns into slow sliding of tongues and a pleasant trade of saliva.

In fact, this kissing strategy work to keep them both so occupied they doesn’t even notice when Hattori shows up. Not until the blacksmith quite loudly clears his throat from the side of them. It makes Iorveth jump back with the hand on the hilt of his sword. He was well aware you couldn’t be careful enough when you were a wanted terrorist inside a hostile city.

“Would it be better if I came back later...?” Asks Hattori, hesitantly.

“No.” Says Roche, quick and sharp. “Where are we to meet with these people?” 

To Iorveth’s amusement, there’s a pink tint to Roche’s cheeks to be seen. Even in the pale blue light of the moon. When he speaks, his usually collected and controlled voice wavers just the slightest. Not that Iorveth could really blame him, Roche had always seemed a lot more bothered to be caught with what the two of them did than he himself was.

Perhaps it was because Iorveth simply didn’t see reason to make a big thing of it. There was tension between them, now more than ever as they were forced to cooperate for the greater good. Instead of trying to kill each other, they fucked and made out. That didn’t make this whole thing mean anything. It would be over once they were done and then it would have been nothing more than letting out some tension.

“It’s not far! The king of beggar’s man, name’s Tinboy.”

“Something we should know about him?” Iorveth asks, knowing the power in information.

“He is easy to ire, so we have to tread carefully. We need him, far more than he need us.”

Hattori was unfortunately right of course. Without these people, there would be no supply of iron to the smithy and it would be dangerous to practice the work. Iorveth had no other accessible routes for iron they could take, and even if he could provide some protection, he could not have more than one or two Scoia’tael in the city without drawing suspicions.

But that however, did not mean that they would simply roll flat for whatever was offered them. Hattori did have some merit, his craft was excellent, far better than Iorveth knew any other to be in any nearby city. Meaning, he would be desirable if this dh’oine had done his research.

The meeting place turns out to be in a closed down back alley between the warehouses of the docks. They are met with four dh’oine, already waiting, scarves obscuring the lower half of their faces. For whatever reason, Iorveth could not tell. Would he spot them in the city without those scarves, he would surely still be able to point them out without issue.

“You were to come alone, elf. Who’re them?”

The leader of the group, Iorveth assumes, Tinboy, has his arms crossed and does not sound too happy about the intrusion of their meeting. Most likely they were hoping for a quick deal, knowing that Hattori was not suited to negotiate in a situation like this. Only to be faced be faced by an unknown third part.

“Try a concerned friend.” Growls Roche, looking as if he is about to start fight.

“I am Iorveth, leader of the scoia’tael. Hattori is of a personal interest to my people.”

There was no reason for him to remain anonymous, most likely these thugs guessed who he was already. His name also held something of a fear factor, even in cities such as these and he could see the dh’oine eye up along the roofs as if he expected half a dozen scoia’tael to show up. It could come to work in their favor.

“Fine then.” Tinboy decides, straightening out a little. “Here’s how we see things. The boss at loggerheads with Cleaver? There’s gotta be a pay-off. We’ve got an offer and It’s non-negotiable.”

“How surprising.” Iorveth mutters with a roll of his eye.

“A steady supply of iron,” Tinboy continues, ignoring Iorveth’s remark. “For fifty percent of your profits.”

Iorveth snorts aloud at that. These people couldn’t believe for the honesty of anything that Hattori would agree on giving up half of his profit, could they? Yes, iron was hard to come over, but not that hard. Roche though, simply looks strangely at Iorveth, as if he is the one crazy. But Iorveth simply rolls his eyes at him.

True, the commander must be more versed in what the usual rating of iron were. But Hattori was not just a random backwater blacksmith. He was a master of the craft, making him more desirable than others might be.

“You can have twenty-five.” He says easily. Crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his head just the slightest.

“Who are you to dictate anythin’ to the king of beggars? Thirty-five’s as low as we’ll go.”

“Twenty percent, and a discount.”

He was aware that both Hattori and Roche were staring at him as if he’d gone completely mad. What the both of them probably didn’t realize was the fact that Iorveth and his scoia’tael unit had countless of hours on their necks with dealing and negotiating with villagers. Everything from needles, to food in the winters, and weapons. He knew how to haggle and he did it well.

“You’re clearly daft! No deal, come on boys.”

“As you wish dh’oine. No deal.”

Iorveth simply turns around and starts walking. Just as the dh’oine had. Hattori looked like a lost panicked wolf cub who didn’t know where his pack had gone, he even grabbed Iorveth’s arm while looking at him like in a panic.

“What? Iorveth…”

“Are you mad?” Hisses Roche at the same time.

“Wait! Fine, you win.” Tinboy calls out. “Certainly know how to negotiate… ugh, bloody squirrels. Twenty percent and the discount.”

Iorveth just has a sly grin on his face. Not only for the fact that his bluff had worked just as he’d hoped, but also because Roche’s face was absolutely priceless. Staring back at him in bewilderment as if Iorveth had done some sort of magic. Iorveth though, turns back around to shake the hand of Tinboy.

“Agreed.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

And that would have been the end of it, had it not been for the squeak from a door behind them. Iorveth for a moment expected to see half a dozen Redanians ready to grab them, but instead there are four or five dwarves walking into the alley. By the looks of it, they don’t seem too friendly either.

“Oh, Tinboy. Too much drink, it’s softened your bloody mind. This ‘ere’s Cleaver’s territory, ye prick-whittler!”

Unsurprisingly, the whole thing ends in blood. The pack of dwarves attacks first, and even have the upper hand in numbers. But both Iorveth and Roche are seasoned warriors and wouldn’t be taken down very easily. Tinboy and his men, while having useless weapons, still turn out to be good enough fighters, even if Hattori proves to be less than helpful. Iorveth can see why he has been so unwilling to butt heads with people who could put up a fight.

In the end, they all manages to get out of there alive and mostly in one piece. There were some minor cuts and bruises, but nothing that was too bad that actually would need medical attention.

It’s been made clear though that while the underground bosses come up with an agreement, Hattori will be needing guards close at hand. Iorveth was usually unwilling to lend out his men to anyone, they had enough need of them in the field. But for this he was willing to station two fine warriors at Hattori’s disposal.

This was after all, something that would help them in the future.

* * *

 

"What exactly did you say to Geralt? At the Passiflora." 

Both of them where panting heavily, laying sprawled out naked all over an actual proper bed and not just Roche’s rickety makeshift straw bed. They’d been fucking for the better part of the last hour and Iorveth was feeling comfortably sated and content. Just like everyone did after a real good, long fuck.

After their meeting with Hattori and the king of beggars men, it had been too late to leave the city. Roche wouldn’t have been able to slip past the guards by the gates and Iorveth wasn’t really feeling like fighting the swarm of monsters that would wait just outside of the damn sewer system.

So, instead they’d decided to stay at Dandelion’s… whatever he liked to call it. Iorveth knew both Dandelion and Zoltan from the time he’d spent with Gwynbleidd in the local tavern of Vergen. So, a brief chat with Zoltan, and they’d been given a room for the night.

The reason he’d talked to Zoltan and not Dandelion was simple. Speaking to Dandelion would most certainly have inspired to a ballad about himself and Roche in the morning. He’d heard enough ballads about Gwynbleidd to know he didn’t wish to end up in one himself.

“What does it even matter dh’oine?”

Iorveth really can’t help the lazy grin spreading across his face, crooking up his scar. He’d been able to hear the jealousy clear as day in Roche’s voice and he was admittedly enjoying it. There was just something about knowing that he had the ability to make Roche turn jealous so easily, that felt nice.

He turns his head to look at Roche while he stretches out with a few satisfying pops in his back. Roche has shifted over to his side and is now frowning. There was a sudden urge in Iorveth to tease and poke at this, to see how far he could press this newfound emotion in Roche.

Iorveth rolls over as well to match Roche’s position. But then he decides not to stop there and easily pushes Roche onto his back and gets over him, straddling his hips. He leans in, as if to steal a long lazy kiss, but instead stops, just shy from Roche’s lips, while his hair is pooling down his shoulders.

“Whatever makes you think you have such exclusive rights on me?” His voice sly.

“I don’t think…” Roche grits out between clenched teeth, his hands having come up to hold onto Iorveth’s hips tightly. “I don’t think I have any rights…”

“No?”

“No.”

“In that case, I said that if Gwynbleidd wanted me, he’d just have to claim me.”

It all happens very quickly, one moment he was straddled over Roche’s hips, having the advantage. The next he finds himself with his back to the bed with Roche pinning down his arms over his head. It draws out a surprised gasp from him and his cock twitches half interested.

They have already been at it several times and he hadn’t thought he had anything left in him. Apparently, his body was about to prove him wrong in response to Roche over him. Gasping as Roche bites and sucks angry marks from his shoulders and all the way up his throat.

He hadn’t expected this at all. He’d expected Roche grumbling and glaring at him, maybe even giving him some biting remarks… not actual biting. Not that he can find himself minding it though. He’s even pleased about the response and that’s something he’ll probably have to think over the next day.

For the night though, they fuck one more time before they simply drop. Sleep coming like a heavy veil as exhaustion takes it toll on his body.

They’d already planned about how they were to do the next day. Around noon, when there was as many people as possible out on the streets, they’d head out. Roche would meet with him at the end of the sewers so they could head back to camp together.

Roche had still been unwilling to simply let Iorveth go his own way. Didn’t trust him on his word that he wasn’t planning to attack the blue stripe camp the first chance he got. Didn’t trust that he’d still help them kill Radovid would he have the chance not to.

If he’d really wished it, he could probably have gotten away from Roche if he’d given some thought into it. But he wanted Radovid gone as much as Roche did, and he wanted the commander to have at least a little trust in him when they went after the king.

That’s why he’s so surprised to wake up the next morning all alone. There is no other sign that Roche has even been there in the first place, except for the fact that the sheets are still ruffled and have that distinct smell of him that still lingers.

As Iorveth sits up in the bed he can see that all Roche’s clothes are gone, just like his weapons. All that remains are Iorveth’s own clothes, his bow and his swords scattered around the room where they’d been discarded the night before.

It doesn’t make much sense, Roche wouldn’t simply have left him like this and yet there’s no sign of a struggle. No reason for Iorveth to suspect foul play, but he doesn’t really like it. Roche wouldn’t even have left him that wide of a window to escape to go get supplies downstairs.

Then he sees it.

The Temerian lilies emblem lying on the nightstand beside him. It had been sitting proudly on Roche’s chest ever since he took it back from Iorveth in the beginning of this whole mess, but now it was just laying neatly on top of a piece of parchment.

Iorveth reaches over to pick the emblem up, turning it a couple of times in his hands, stroking his fingers along the edges. The metal is scratched and worn, but just as cared for as it had been the last time he’d held it in his possession. He’d actually seen Roche polish it at one point.

Picking up the note, he finds that it’s just one thing on it. No directions for him to follow, no meeting point or threat about what’d happen if he tried anything. It’s just four simple words… and yet they have the power to throw his entire world off balance.

_I wanted you first._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHA! another update and quickly! Thank you all for reading and being so encouraging, it really does keep me writing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche wonders if maybe he's made a mistake...

To leave Iorveth behind had been one of the most contradictory things Vernon Roche had ever done, possibly in his entire life. He couldn’t possibly have been within his right mind that morning.

He had nearly done the right thing several times as he left the city further and further behind him. He’d nearly turned back, and yet? He’d shown up in camp alone.

Ves had assumed he’ been attacked by Iorveth, having set one look to the cut he’d sprouted over his cheek, the cut he’d gained from the fight with Cleaver’s tugs. He’d told her off and to let it go. He’d even snapped at her that he was fine when she had kept prodding. He’d gone so far as to say they’d simply gone separate paths.

Which of course, wasn’t entirely a lie.

For a week, Ves had nagged him and demanded that they moved their camp. They both knew that Iorveth knew where the remaining of the blue stripes were hidden. Ves said that surely, he would have the squirrels come cut their throats at night while they least expected it.

But Roche’s insanity had held on and their camp had remained where it had been for several months now. After a week or two of absolutely nothing happening, Ves finally quitted her demands of their camp being moved.

It was a relief for the men, not having to find a new camp, but somewhat of a low blow for Roche. He didn’t like the feeling, barely understood it, but the pit of his stomach was constantly gnawing a larger and larger hole. It was ridiculous of course, and Roche tried to ignore it best he could. He wouldn’t imagine seeing Iorveth ever again unless they ended up fighting each other.

Three weeks in of his misery, the assassination plot went to nothing. There was simply no reasonable way to get to the Redanian brat while he was safely upon his damned ship. Neither of them had any mean to lure the bastard off it, except possibly Geralt, but neither of them had seen neither hide nor hair from the witcher since the meeting.

The morale of the camp sunk to an all new low after that.

And who could possibly blame them for it? All of their hope had gone to destroy the bratty snot eater and then take Temeria back. It had been such a clear achievable goal and had kept all of their spirits up and eager. They’d been able to dream about home again, an end to hiding out in a cave and fighting a losing war.

Now? They were back to just surviving.

Shortly after they’d had to blow off the assassination plot, there had been a sudden decrease of scoia’tael activity in the area. As if suddenly the damn squirrels had gotten busy on another front. Roche had doubted that the elves had known that the plans were off… but he had still felt the pit in his stomach dig a little further when he heard the news.

Not that the blue stripes actually cared about catching the squirrels anymore. They had caused more trouble for Radovid than any of their own efforts had and neither of his men seemed to want to argue anyone who caused trouble for the deranged brat.

Sometimes he could even hear grumbling around the fire about how the squirrels had done a damn fine job at sabotaging for the Redanians and how it was a shame that they had just gone. No one worried about their health of course, it was simply a matter of the enemy of my enemy and so on.

Roche simply tried not to think about the reason why the scoia’tael had gone so quiet. He hadn’t heard anything from his spies or sources about anyone catching or killing a substantial number of elves lately. But he still had this very uncomfortable feeling that something bad had happened.

No matter how many times he snapped at Ves, that whatever he’d done with Iorveth, it had been just fucking and nothing else… he knew for himself that it simply wasn’t true and no matter how many times he said it, it wouldn’t ever just turn true.

Four weeks in, Geralt appeared in his camp once more. He was almost relieved when the witcher asked him to help with some kind of madman mission to fight the specters of the wild hunt, in order to protect Ciri. While he didn’t actually believe in the wild hunt, he was sure they were going to fight someone and that would work to occupy his head enough to forget all about the absent elf that no longer could be found by his side with snide remarks and a bad attitude.

An elf he never in his life thought he’d ever miss, would unfortune come upon the damn son of a whore. But that he now couldn’t stop thinking about him, not even while he slept.

“You are hundred miles away, what’s going on Roche?”

Roche was pulled out of his thoughts and into reality by the voice of Ves. They had been on the road for the past week, stopping only to sleep or buy more supplies for the journey. It was late at night and the fire was crackling merrily in between them, giving light to their little glade where they had stopped for the night.

He had planned going alone, fighting a possible suicide battle against specters? He hadn’t wanted to waste any more lives than he needed to, especially not Ves’ life. But the young woman had easily tracked him down and joined him nonetheless. Not caring about his protests. 

“I simply hope this will not get us killed.” He grunts.

“I don’t even know if we’re supposed to believe it. The wild hunt I mean.”

There is a small frown on her face as she speaks, making her nose scrunch a little in a way Roche could appreciate as sweet. But he wouldn’t ever tell her so or he’d probably get stabbed. That woman cared nothing for the affection of men.

“Whatever they are, Geralt wouldn’t have asked us to come wouldn’t there be one hell of a fight.” He points out.

Specters racing the night with every full moon, only to kill off entire villages? Skeletal armors or simply bones of the dead walking while putting the path they walk under heavy frost? It sounded like a bard’s tale, something perhaps Dandelion would come up with.

“You know, he could have come rather handy now, Iorveth.” Ves says, the small frown still there, “he might be a squirrel, but even I have to admit that elves do have a perfect aim.”

“We can fight without whore sons at our side.” Roche grunts, annoyance in his voice.

Iorveth had made his goddamn choice now. Roche had given him the chance to choose what he wanted to do, and Iorveth had chosen to be elsewhere. With not a word for over a month. While this hurt, Roche at least knew that the damn elf had made his choice and now it was only a matter for Roche to get over that choice.

It still wasn’t working very well if the pit in his stomach was to take into consideration.

Ves doesn’t offer him a response and thankfully lets the subject go. Instead they speak about strategies, wild ones, of how to lure Radovid off his ship and how they would best be able to rebuild Temeria. Alas, since they have a long journey ahead, they head to an early sleep.

Neither of them taking up the fact that they might possibly die before seeing Temeria back in it’s splendor.

* * *

 

It takes Roche and Ves another five days to reach the witcher fort of Kaer Morhen, where they are welcomed by an older witcher who introduces himself as Vesemir. Geralt have spoken of this witcher before, quite some many times even, so it is nice to finally have a face to the name.

Vesemir shows them where they can leave their horses and then a nice enough warm corner where they can settle in while they had their stay there. Not very surprisingly, him and Ves were not the only ones who had been requested to join the fight and more people were to join them while some had arrived before them.

Keira Metz, a sorceress, had been here for almost a month. Triss Merigold, to no one’s surprise a couple of weeks. Yenifer who Roche had only ever heard mentioned by name while they had still been in Flotsam. Roche had quietly wondered exactly how many sorceresses you could fit under a roof before things blew up.

There was also two more witchers, Eskel and Lambert. Eskel was out in the mountains hunting a forktail, _strange how even witcher establishments had monsters around them,_ and the other mostly seemed to brood or flirt with Keira. Or at least the intention seemed to be flirting even if he really had no skill for it whatsoever. It was lucky the sorceress seemed to think it was sweet or the witcher would probably have gotten fire balls thrown at his ass.

Two elves were constantly present in the fort, one seemed to be sick, the other one seemed unproportionable in height. Neither of the two spoke very much and no one seemed eager to approach them for conversations either. There was supposedly another elf about, but he was currently hunting with the witcher, in the mountains.

Zoltan was also there, the dwarf from Flotsam and the dwarf Iorveth had spoken to on their night in Novigrad. He could quite often be seen speaking to an alchemist with grey hair and an inconvenient long name. But everyone just called him Regis for short.

It kept his mind busy, talking to new people and finding out new things about them while helping preparing the fort for battle. Roche, Lambert and Regis cleared out the rubble from the armory, Regis being surprisingly strong and agile for such a scrawny looking alchemist.

Roche even found himself getting along rather well with both Lambert and Regis. Lambert and himself would trade stories of fights and sword strategies while Regis would tell them about strange stories that nearly sounded like wild fantasies.

The alchemist also got them rather drunk one night on mandrake hooch. Nothing Roche really remembered much of, but he had woken up half naked on a flight of stairs with his sword in hand while lambert had been found sleeping in the kitchen in a dress that didn’t belong to him.

Even though it had given him the hangover of the ages, it was all really good for his mental stability. He’d not even realized how starved he’d been on some regular none warfare interactions he’d been. Not that he wouldn’t want to go back once this was over, but he would go back with a renewed eagerness.

One night, he found himself in the main hall after dinner, smoking his pipe while listening to a wild tale from Zoltan about something that Roche was fairly sure was made up. Keira, Yenifer, Vesemir, the elf that had seemed sick and the druid from Skellige, who had arrived earlier that day with a couple of warriors and Hjalmar, had all turned in for the night.

A shame, because the night was young and they were all having quite the fun time. Everyone was also slightly drunk from Regis’ mandrake hooch and Eskel had returned from his hunt with a deer that had been turned into a delicious dinner for them all.

While Zoltan nearly fell off his chair while gesturing wildly, he could hear Ves, who was sitting close to the mysterious elf, speak to him. Since Roche had yet to hear the strange elf’s voice, his attention is turned to them both.

“So, where are you from?” He can hear her ask.

Roche had never been able to determine the age of elves, they could look twenty and yet be over a hundred, it was all in the eyes, older elves tended to have eyes belonging to old men, men who had seen too much war and death. But he couldn’t tell with this elf. His eyes looked young and blue, he had long black hair and a regal posture even while relaxing. It was a strange but still very refined difference from the elves Roche was used to see.

“I doubt you would know of it.” Says the elf, his voice strangely deep and relaxed. “It lies not within this world.”

“Tell me about it?” Requests Ves, Roche can swear she has shifted closer to the elf.

“What would there be to tell? It is my home, where I grew up. No gem could compare to the beauty of the palace whence I spent my youth.”

“You lived in a palace?”

This was the tricky part of speaking to elves who weren’t fighting you. They could never just give a damn straight answer. It was something Roche had always appreciated in Iorveth, he was as straight as he could be. Maybe because whatever that damn elf had said had either been about killing, fucking, or a lot of cursing.

“Would this surprise you so? We have no dh’oine kings.”

“No, no, I was just… I am sorry. Why did you leave?”

Roche had never seen Ves act like this before. She was acting a bit like a young girl with a crush and had Roche not known her better, that’s what he’d have thought.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?”

Roche jumped a little startled. He’d been so focused on listening to Ves and the mystery elf that he hadn’t even noticed someone walking up right behind him. Not that the hand suddenly on his shoulder was the only thing to startle him, but the voice was what had really rocked him.

It was a voice he’d never forget, nor would ever mistake for another.

“Or are you just trying to figure out if you’ll have to fight off a suitor from Ves? I wouldn’t be too bothered, he’s an Aen elle.”

Roche looks up over his shoulder, the familiar elf having that stupid smug smile on his face that curves his scar. From this angle he can see the old wound wind up underneath the red headcloth, the curve of those plush lips and the way Iorveth’s eye was searching him with somewhat of an insecurity even if the smile was infuriatingly cocky.

Over a month later, and Iorveth was finally there, grinning at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long wait again! Been a lot of school, then Christmas and then I got engaged! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this, thank you for all kudos and comments, you guys are all amazing! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, smutty smut. Yep, a chapter with reunion smut!

A low gasp leaves his lips as Roche’s teeth close around the tip of his pointed ear. Not to harm, of course, but to tease. And Iorveth love it. His back is pressed up against the cool hard wood of the door to the bedroom he’d taken as his own upon arrival to the witcher castle. He his hopelessly pinned with no room to escape the brutal onslaught of kisses, bites and licks from the blue stripe commander.

Not that Iorveth would have wished escape even if he had the chance of course. This was the kind of trapped he enjoyed and didn’t wish rescue from.

The two of them had barely even managed to get properly out of sight from the main hall before this escapade had begun. Roche all over him with his bites and kisses. Kisses and touches that Iorveth returned with a hungry fever.

Admittedly, he’d been a bit concerned of what Roche’s reaction might would have been, since Iorveth had just up and vanished after their last… meeting. He had of course had reasons of his own not to show up, but he’d still been concerned.

For no reason at all, as it has turned out.

Iorveth groans throatily and drags his fingers up over Roche’s neck as best he can in this position, following the tight muscles all the way up to his neck. From there his fingers slips up his face and easily pushes the silly cloth from Roche’s head. This to be able to run his fingers through the soft brown hair.

Roche’s own sword calloused hands were unbuckling and unstrapping Iorveth’s jacket as best he could and Iorveth readily twisted and shifted to help out and to finally allow it to fall to the floor. Leaving him in just the green loose tunic he always wore underneath.

Clothes and weapons though, soon follow the jacket to the floor. With loud enough clatter and bang for everyone to probably hear it through the castle, but they didn’t have the time to care. There was nothing in this world except them and their reunion.

Their lips only ever grow part from each other to give way for the removal of clothes of for deep labored breaths of air. They stumble and nearly fall as they pass the room, constantly touching, constantly kissing.

They are both naked as they fall into the bed together.

Roche’s hands and lips roam desperately over the planes of the elven chest, mapping out the tattoo with his tongue, and twirling it over a sensitive bud. Iorveth arches off the bed with a gasp as the swirling of a tongue turns into a bite, making his skin sing of pure excitement.

“Mine.” Roche growls against his skin, and Iorveth can nothing but agree.

He is just barely aware that neither of them is in any kind of way quiet. Moans and gasps, labored breath mingling together, would probably alert anyone who might happen to pass their room as to what is going on. But he doesn’t care.

Any rational side of his brain is turned off to make way for the pleasure. He cared about nothing but the feeling of Roche’s lips across his stomach and then those lips wrapping around his aching cock. Tongue skillfully swiping and twirling to prod and tease all the best spots.

His own hands are in a tight grip of Roche’s hair, eagerly following the bobbing motions as the pace is being picked up, shifted, slowed down, then picked back up once more. He knows, regretfully, that this is something he will not manage to keep up for long. Even if elven stamina was nothing to frown upon, it was always hard to hold back when you were with someone of importance.

And Roche, Roche is of great importance.

Iorveth shouts out loud in ecstasy as his vision whitens out and his cock throbs out hot ropes into Roche’s throat. But he knows they have only just begun, he’ll be hard again in a heartbeat.

As he comes back to it, he watches Roche swallow down, looking all kinds of gorgeous. His lips red and glossy from his work and the spit and cum. And still, the Temerian has the audacity to grin at him cheekily, licking those lovely lips.

“That didn’t take much. Getting out of practice?” The cockiness isn’t just in Roche’s face but leaving trails all through his voice.

“Scared I’ll have found another dh’oine to pleasure me?” Iorveth easily purrs back with a lazy smile.

That’s right, just because he was nicely content by just having cum, didn’t mean that he didn’t still have his wit about him. He was always ready to jab at the commander, at any given time.

Roche growls at him for the mark and grabs onto his hips and hauls him onto his stomach in one fluid motion. It makes Iorveth hiss his complaints as his still sensitive cock suddenly gets the rough touch of the sheets. But it still isn’t a real complaint, he is enjoying himself too much and he’d lie if he claimed that he wasn’t, once more, hard against the sheets.

He hums as Roche’s strong arms comes to rest on the bed just under his own arms, the Temerian’s muscled chest pressing against his back in a hard line and his heavy cock laying against the crack of his ass. Iorveth is eager to lift his hips to let Roche push a pillow in under his hips, for comfort.

“I won’t share. Iorveth.” Roche growls against his ear, biting at the tip once more. “You better fucking remember that.”

“Are you always this possessive?” Iorveth hums with a sly grin, feeling the pull of his scar in the motion.

“Only when it comes to especially annoying elves.”

Iorveth sighs content, but the noise turn into a whine as the heat of Roche leaves him as the man gets up from the bed. Iorveth Stretches out a little where he lies to hide the shiver, then he turns his head to watch as the Temerian sits crouched down by Iorveth’s satchel, digging around in it.

Iorveth takes the moment to admire a strong backside, watching the muscles twitch and bounce a little from the way he is seated. He already knows what those muscles are good for, loves the weight of them all over him. He knows what it’s like to see them twitch while Roche is underneath him. Knows how those muscles move while they are fucking.

However, you can only stay dreaming so long while someone is cursing aloud, and Iorevth is drawn back to reality as he watches Roche hold up not one, but four vials of oil. He can’t really help the little laugh that slips out from his lips and he comfortably drop his head onto his arms to watch, his damaged eye get hidden out of view.

“Why the fuck is there so many of these?”

“Obviously, because they do different things.” Iorveth replies in amusement. “You will want the yellow one.”

“So, what’s the blue one for?”

Iorveth watches Roche tilt the blue vial this way and that. While that could be rather fun, the content making it feel like the sparks of a thunderstorm danced over your skin, rather pleasurable in small doses. But it also would mean a rather intense session of fucking and he had a feeling it would be over a lot sooner than he’d wish it to be if they used it.

“A different use, a different smell.” Is all he says, because one day, this might be a fun surprise. “Just pick one dh’oine or we shall still be here to the next week.”

Roche uncorks the blue vial and takes a sniff at it. As promised, the oil smells different than usual oil made from olives. It smells a bit like a field after heavy rain.

After some time of consideration, _Iorveth has stopped watching and is simply waiting with his eyes closed,_ Roche finally puts the vials away with a few small clinks and return to the bed, sitting on his knees behind him.

As Roche has approached him, Iorveth had quickly pushed himself up onto his elbows and opened his eyes. Unfortunately, this position makes it somewhat harder to actually see Roche, impossibly if he turns his head to the side where he lacked his eye. But he could still **feel** Roche, because the asshole grabs him by the balls, making him lose his balance and land on his face in the pillows with a loud moan.

It wasn’t just because of Roche’s damn touch, but because of the sudden tingle of the electric current that sparkled as the oil came into contact with his sensitive skin.

It really doesn’t take long before Roche has managed to turn Iorveth into a mewling mess. Stretching him open and ready, sparks tingling and making it hard for him to think.

It’s nearly enough to drive him straight back over the edge once more, without even having more than Roche’s fingers twisting and stroking inside him. But he staves it off. He refuses to cum again until Roche does it first.

He is certainly coherent enough to grin widely when he hears the surprised yelp and cursing from behind him all of a sudden. Telling him that Roche has slicked his dick with the oil. One of the best parts about the blue vial was that as long as the continence was only at your hands or feet, you didn’t really feel the effect of it. Anywhere else though?

“What the fucking hell was that!” Roche gasps, half choked in a moan.

“It’ll go away, Roche. Just, ah… fuck… just hurry up!”

Roche takes a moment though, just gasping and moaning behind him and Iorveth can easily hear the sound of Roche’s hand sliding over his own cock. The elf whines, to remind Roche what they were actually doing here, making the commander grumble something about damn elves and their elf oils.

Which wasn’t entirely correct since it was more somewhat of a witcher oil but it had been gifted to him.

But it doesn’t take much longer after that for Roche’s dick to finally breach him and Iorveth’s world explodes in a rainbow of sensations. Roche, as always, is large and thick where he himself is long and slender.

This never fails to make him feel as if he’s filled up to the fucking brim as the fucking dh’oine shoves himself fully sheeted into him. The addition of the sparks from the oil has his world spinning and he has to put all his focus on keeping himself together to not cum, not yet.

It’s especially hard since Roche start to pound into him, hard and possessive. Each thrust was screaming a silent **_mine._** Or perhaps it was a very loud screaming, Iorveth wasn’t entirely certain anymore, for the elf is pretty quickly reduced to a moaning and blabbering mess between the thick cock up his ass, the slide of Roche’s chest against his back and the hand that Roche has slipped in underneath him to stroke his cock.

Unsurprisingly, it’s over fat too quickly. The coiling burn of his release builds up in the speed of a wild fire and in the end, he can’t hold it back anymore. But neither can Roche and the final push to nudge Iorveth over the line is when Roche releases inside of him hot and hard.

As they fall into the bed together, Iorveth drops his head heavily against Roches’s chest. He loves to listen to the pounding of his heart, as it works overspeed in trying to calm down. He knows they should both clean up, but for a moment… they can just enjoy the glow of the moment. Of being back together once more.

They lay in silence, their breaths slowly returning to what you would call normal and their hearts returns to a regular beating. The chill slowly pulls over them as their exertion is over with, but Roche easily tugs the blankets up over their messy selves.

“I missed you, elf.” Roche quietly murmurs against his ear.

It makes Iorveth smile, because he’d missed Roche as well. Pretended he hadn’t, pretended that life could go on as it had before. But truth was, he’d known, from start, from the first time they woke up beside each other, that their lives had changed forever. For better or for worse.

“I missed you as well, dh’oine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly not my best chapter, sorry about that. But I hope you'll still enjoy it, and I am sorry about how slow this fic is updating. I can't promise you that the chapters will come faster either, so I'm sorry, and thank you all who are still reading <3 You are all amazing


	10. 10: Upcoming battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an upcoming battle, new information and the upcoming sense of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LO AND BEHOLD, a new chapter! I hope you all enjoy.

“The king of the wild hunt is not… malicious. None of what he does, he does purely out of the vindictiveness of his heart.”

These damned elves were going to be the damned death of Roach. Not his own elf, not Iorveth. Granted that Iorveth was a man who knew well how to step on every last reserve of Roache’s sanity, but he was nothing in comparison to these two Aen Elle elves.

Roche wasn’t overly great at describing people, but if he only got to use a few key words for these elves, he’d use words like _royal, eternal, mysterious,_ and plain out _gorgeous_ at least the younger of them _._ They weren’t from this world and he could tell by just seeing them, no talking required.

There was no real tell when it came to elves and their age, no visible tells anyway. Sometimes you could speak to them and you would know at once if they had the brashness of youth or the wisdom of age. He could tell that Iorveth wasn’t very old, but neither very young, even if he had no idea if that meant fifty years or three hundred.

These two elves though, he had a hard time to place by his normal standards. The one with grey hair and dressed in robes, Avallac’h he was called, Roche would say was old, at least a couple of hundred years… They said he was a sage, which of course made things harder to determine. The beautiful one with the long black hair and the piercing blue eyes, Revas he was called. Roche couldn’t tell at all.

Revas was clearly younger than his grey friend, yet he seemed older than anyone with such a beautiful face had any right to be. His posture, the way he spoke, all of it reminded Roche of the time he spent at Foltest’s court. But this elf would not be called an ordinary king, but a king straight out of the legends.

And yet? In his eyes there was the same bright fire that you only saw in warriors who had just passed for soldiers and still were eager to make the world a better place, eager to fight for what they believed in.

The way they had ideals and dreams of a glorified battlefield… before they saw the reality of the world and wished for nothing else than going back home where things were safe.

So, no, even though having tried, he couldn’t tell neither of the elves ages.

“He seems pretty malicious to me.” Lamber says.

Roche have to agree with the grumpy witcher on this. The wild hunt was a ghost story, a ghost story with a blood splattered ending of death and destruction. What you heard was that they rode in with snow and ice, tortured, maimed and killed everyone in their path. Those who survived got abducted, never to be seen again and then, the hunt would simply be gone. Leaving nothing but a snowy wasteland behind.

“Everything Eredin do, he do for my people. We are dying, our world is dying. The white frost is slowly devouring our home and our prior king refused to act, refused to acknowledge the threat. His ignorance drove Eredin to desperation.”

“So he kill people in this world because..?” Eskel, the other witcher says, his voice hesitant as if he wasn’t sure he was understanding things right.

“To buy my people time. If every human would be gone or enslaved, they would pose no threat to my people would the need come and we must leave our home world. At least until we stop the white frost from progressing. Zireael have the power to move many people in one portal.”

“If there is a stop to the damned thing, why don’t you just stop it?” Roach knows he sounds annoyed, hell he is annoyed, and he won’t keep it hidden.

If there was a way to stop it, then why didn’t they just stop it? Why did they need to come here? Why go through all the damn trouble to capture Ciri to make her move their people if they didn’t actually need to. Roach understood it might be hard to stop it, but this elf clearly seemed to believe it could be done some way.

“We would need a child of the elderblood. Zireael or any daughter of hers would be the key… However, it would also be her end. Eredin had hoped for a child of hers, a child he could raise for this purpose. Someone who would not resist once her time come.”

“However seeing how there are only two individuals with the blood of Lara and how neither of them are willing to cooperate-.“ Ciri says, arms crossed and a frown on her face.

Sometimes, it strikes Roche how much she resembles Geralt, all the way from her ashen hair to the way she voices certain opinions. He knows who her parents are, but it is such a strange thought, that she isn’t Geralt’s by blood. They even have the same streak of noble stubbornness. However, that is not what catches Roche’s attention right now. Just as it isn’t anyone else main focus either.

“Two?”

Geralt wasn’t the only one to ask this with shock in his voice. Roche was pretty sure almost everyone around the table expressed the same word at pretty much simultaneously. Hell, even Iorveth looked shocked.

“Two,” Revas agrees slowly. “Three, if you include my daughter.”

“Which we will not.” The other elf says sharply.

“How is that even possible? And if there is already an elf with Lara Dorren’s blood then why do Eredin want Ciri?” Yenifer asks.

“Eredin is desperate, but he is not desperate enough to sacrifice his own child. Trying to pair me with women to procreate have also proved fruitless in his eyes since I have no desire to bed any women at all. Besides, my powers are limited. Zireael’s powers have no restrictions other than those put up by her own mind.”

“So, why not use your own damn daughter?” Again, Roche agrees with Lambert. This seemed like an elven problem, why did the elves pull Ciri into it if there was an alternative?

“Because she is four years old and I would set every world ablaze before the white frost even had its chance before I allow anyone to touch her.”

Anyone else, and this would have been merely an expression of fierce protectiveness. Something you said but couldn’t accomplish. But this elf? He had an air about himself, the way he looked, the way he spoke. He wasn’t making any empty threats, he would put the world to ruin before he allowed anyone near his daughter.

Even if he hadn’t, Roche doubted anyone in this room would agree to use a four-year-old little girl in a quest where the end was certain death. Just as little as they were willing to put Ciri through it.

“So… what is our plan?” Iorveth asks slowly.

“For right now, staying alive and keeping Ciri safe. Buying us time.” This time it’s Geralt speaking up.

“Buying time for what? Death at a later date?”

Roche sometimes wondered how Lambert went through life and survived with all that pessimism. If it was bad luck that he didn’t get killed or if the witcher actually had something that made it worth survival. Everything he said always seemed really… depressing.

“Time for a change of ruler.” Avallac’h says. “Revas is the rightful king of the aen elle twice over. He has more support of the people than Eredin or even Auberon before him. However, a change in government require time and allies other than the people. Ge’els could be-.”

“Avallac’h, this is not the time or place for politics. While Ge’els is the reasonable of the two, they have been lovers longer than I have been born and he know me well enough to know I have no wish for the crown.”

“He raised you just as well as Eredin. His loyalty to you are greater than you realize.” Avallac’h says sharply in return, it seems this is not a new argument between them. “And what you wish in the matter is irrelevant. There is need of a new ruler and you are the most aptly suited.”

“Can we not… Please, love. Focus on the now, I know you sages keep living five decades in the future, but there is a battle only hours away and I would rather wish everyone survived.”

While it had been somewhat interesting to see the rapid change in the two mysterious elves as they went from regal to something a lot more normal, it was really not the time for it. Geralt had arrived yesterday with Ciri and all night had been about working hard on preparations. They all knew they had little to no time left, so this was not the time for a lover’s quarrel or a political debate.

“Right, all very interesting…” Geralt says, in a way that tells them it hadn’t been in any kind of way interesting for the witcher, or perhaps it was simply the usual lack of emotion in his voice. “But for today, we have to focus on protecting Ciri. That’s who the wild hunt wants.”

“That is so,” Avallac’h agrees. “Zireael cannot be allowed into Eredin’s hands.”

As they come back to track of things, Geralt lays out their plan of defense and attack. There is a sense of gloom laying heavily over them all as they speak, the knowledge that many of them might not survive this. Their odds were too low and you didn’t need to be a seasoned commander to know that the few of them, would be no match for an army.

Avallac’h and Ciri wouldn’t be fighting with them at all. Understandably of course, as Ciri was the one to be protected and Avallac’h looked as if he’d fall to the ground if the wind blew at him from a funny direction. There was a story there, about some kind of curse, which was unfortunate because even Roche knew that a sage could have come in handy.

Roche also wasn’t overly fond of the idea that he would be so far away from Iorveth in the battle. He agreed of course, it was only logical since Iorveth was an excellent archer and would do most damage from a spot higher up than Roche himself, away from the main fight on the ground.

But still, Roche would have wished to be closer to keep his eyes on the damned elf… in case he’d need backup.

In battles like these, that wasn’t something you got to choose though, and they are all walking out of the keep with that pressing feeling of doom. Roche had fought many battles with this feeling and rarely had they ended well.

He was surprised though, when he was stopped just outside the doors. His body being pulled and crashed up against another, clashing of familiar lips and a homey scent enveloped him in a sense of false safety. The scent of forest, smoke and nature that had become more home to him than any space he’d ever lived.

“Don’t you die on me, Roche.” Iorveth almost sound bored as he say this. “I’m far from done with you.”

“I only make that promise if you do.” Roche returns easily.

The elf smiles that crooked coy smile that pulls on his scar all the way in under his bandana. He doesn’t say anything more, but his eyes convey a lot more than words would ever be able.

The wild hunt be damned, Roche wasn’t going to die today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did indeed slip from canon, even more... DUNDUNDUUUN  
> Stay tuned for more shenanigans... and by shenanigans I mean someone is about to get very hurt. That someone might be Iorveth... I mean... Vesimir can't always be the one dying right?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle...  
> Plans of an uncertain future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUNDUNDUUNDUUUN! New chapter you guys! ^^ I have three chapters ready for update, so how about it, the upcoming 3 weeks, you will have an update each week.

“You needn’t keep a brave face you know.”

Iorveth allowed a small glance to his left at the little she witcher that had appeared beside him. He’d been lost in the view of the forest beyond the walls, but even so, he’d heard her coming. Humans truly tended to be rather noisy as they walked.

“This simply happen to be my face little swallow.”

Iorveth could hear his voice to be more tired than he’d have cared to admit. But it was such a day. The battle had been hard and the aftermath was still… aching, outside, as well as his inside.

“Won’t you at least visit him?”

He can’t help the scoff leaving him, arms crossing tighter over his chest of their own violation.  No, he didn’t wish to see Roche, didn’t wish to see… No. He didn’t wish to see.

“Oh come on! It would cheer up his spirit the least!” She insists, “we can even go together, so you can continue your pretense that you don’t care of him.”

Iorveth clenches his teeth tight, he didn’t _want_ to go and visit Roche. Because he was still angry, because he was still upset, because he didn’t want to see the damage Roche’s body had taken.

Hell, Iorveth was still pissed off beyond belief that Roche had been so… dumb. Putting himself in danger by throwing himself at a sword for no good reason! Humans who already lived such ridiculously short lives as it was, and they constantly seemed to search for ways to shorten them.

What if Iorveth’s next arrow had not reached true? What if it had been one of those arrows that wouldn’t have found their goal? Roche wouldn’t gotten away with simply a few scars to show for his endeavor. He would have ended up in the ground when he in actuality had many years left to remain among the world of the living.

“I do not pretend I do not have care for him.” It is intended to come out as an annoyance, though even to his own ears the words sound flat. “Wipe that smirk off your face dh’oine. Why do you not turn your attention to your adoptive father instead? You should ask him about the fact that he find comfort in your biological father’s bed.”

He really shouldn’t feel as content as he did with that jab. But he can’t help it, the face the little she witcher had made was priceless. But since he knows very well this was also prone to come and bite him in the ass, he also makes a quick retreat.

Whatever retaliation she would come with later would be worth it.

But since he ends up having no better place to go, he very soon finds himself in the makeshift infirmary. Vesimir and Regis were apparently both well versed in the art of medics. Or at least they were plenty good enough to make certain that they were all patched up after the battle.

Vesimir perhaps doubly impressive as he did so while having a broken arm and a crushed nose. He had taken quite the beating, but lived. He was a lot tougher than he looked.

However, Iorveth heads to a very specific cot, one that contained a certain blue stripe commander. Though he stops by the foot end of it, rearranging his arms to cross his chest once more and looks down at the man highly unimpressed.

Roche had a badly split lip, blooded bandages wrapped around his chest and deep cuts across his right arm and shoulder. Not to speak about the internal damage that he had gotten explained to him by Regis, was rather extensive albeit not critical.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t come by.” Roche says, trying for humor.

Iorveth though, is not in the damn mood for humor. _“Bloode dh’oine.”_ Is all he manages to spit out, before walking over and sitting heavily on the edge f the cot, close enough to touch Roche’s face.

He doesn’t though, he simply watches.

Roche was looking way too content for someone in the position he was in. He should at least have the decency to look miserable and think over what he’d bloody well done. So, he wouldn’t do it again. His actions had been stupid and damn reckless.

“Just that? No badge of valor? Or praising my name for my brave- Ah! What the fucking hell?!”

Iorveth had slapped him.

The gods be damned, fool. He deserved a lot more than a damn fucking slap, but if Iorveth planned to do anything more violent than that slap, it would only serve to make Roche’s already delicate condition, worse. He’d simply have to wait until Roche was once again on his feet for the actual punching.

“Never, ever, dare to do that to me again!” He spits viciously. “Contrary to popular beliefs, I would not at all take pleasure of your premature death Vernon Roche.”

Roche is staring at him. Shocked perhaps, bewildered, surprised… even ashamed? Iorveth can’t quite tell, or perhaps it was a little bit of all of those options. Damn human and making Iorveth feel things he would much prefer not to feel.

The hand on his arm pulls him back into the future, making him take a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d needed. But tears are already welling over in his eye. Tears of anger, sorrow, perhaps even relief? He isn’t entirely certain, he just knows they feel good. As tears always tend to do when they come from emotion and not pain.

“C’me’ere.”

There is a protest on his tongue, he knows he should use it. Roche wasn’t fit for any kind of jostling, but Iorveth really was nothing if not graceful and he easily shifts until he’s lying safely on his side beside Roche. The cot might be tiny, but Roche has made no face nor notion he is in additional pain by the company upon it.

Iorveth lays his arm on tip of an uninjured patch of skin on Roche’s firm abdomen, his head laying on the healthy shoulder free from angry gnashes. He even allows for his eye to fall shut.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Roche murmurs, breath against his forehead. “I shouldn’t have put myself in harms way without need.”

“I am not unaware as to our racial differences.” Iorveth finally manages, after a time of silence where he has simply allowed for silent tears to drip down onto Roche. “I will live long after your time is up, and there is nothing that will change this. Save for a sword plunged into my chest. But please… Roche, do not make it earlier than I will already have to endure.”

And there it was, Roche had gotten what he undoubtedly always had wished for. Iorveth, leader of the scoia’tael, begging. Begging the blue stripe commander, begging him to not die.

Of course, Iorveth had known, ever since the start of this. He had known if he allowed his emotions to grow for this man, he would one day loose him. Roche would expire long before his own life would have even begun to reach the age of _old._

Iorveth would live several human lifetimes over and again before time would start to touch him. That, and nothing else, was the true curse of a human lover. Just as it was to some, a comfort in it. There was such a short time that could be shared with them. A mere seventy years if you were lucky.

“I cannot stand back from fighting.” Roche says slowly.

“I know this.” Iorveth return with a sigh.

But then there are calloused fingers underneath his chin, tilting his face until his eye was locked with Roche’s. “But I shan’t take unnecessary risks. You have my word on this.”

Iorveth supposes that was all he could ask. More than he could ask. Just as it was all he could give in return. Elves were not immortal, they were simply long lived. A sword could end him just as easy as it could any other.

The kiss, he isn’t certain who begun it, but he takes good care not to upset Roche’s split lip too much. He didn’t have an actual wish to harm his damn human, even had it been highly satisfactory to slap him.

“I shall keep you to it.” He murmurs against Roche’s lips.

There’s silence after that, a few lazy kisses before they both settled into a somewhat more comfortable position for sleep. Hearing Roche breath, his heart thumping underneath his ear in his chest… Iorveth would fall asleep to this very quickly.

“As soon as I am better, we must head to Novigrad.”

Apparently, they were not quite finished conversing and Iorveth gives up a little half-hearted sigh. But he refuses to open his eye again. He was all too comfortable.

“I tire of your human cities.” Is what he deigns to answer. “Especially that of which is infested with Radovid and his vermin.”

“Then let us make certain his vermin stay there no longer. Let us make Temeria the free land it is meant to be. For all, humans, mages, dwarves, elves… everyone who wishes peace. We just need that madman of the damn throne.”

Iorveth lets out a little chuckle at that, “ever the patriot.” He murmurs tiredly.

Though, he would dream about this tonight. A place where his people would no longer need to hide in the forest and fight for their survival. No longer would more of them die than they could afford.

He longed for a place for his people to be safe, where they could prosper, have children. He longed for a home of his own, somewhere he could place his bow and possessions without the fear of neither loosing nor needing them.

Somewhere he could have a bed.

A bed fit for two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course neither of them dies! They have a king to kill and more shenanigans to do! :3 
> 
> I'm so thankful for all your comments, your kudos, your continued reading even if I am so slow at updating. University takes a lot of time, but I've an increased interest of writing due to it, so I hope to be a lot more active once more! 
> 
> Have a lovely day lovelies! <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of kings and rulers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys, we're closing in. There will be just one more chapter after this, then we'll be done!

“Vernon Roche, the king of Temeria. Such a fancy title.”

“Shut up whoreson.”

“And here I’d hoped such a title would have improved your langue. I guess it was a wasted potential.”

Roche was bristling at the edges over the tease, staring death and destruction down on him. A lesser man might have been worried, scared even, but it only served to make Iorveth laugh.

Once upon a time he’d seen the same look on the commander’s face. It had been thrown his way when he’d bested him in a duel in a certain forest outside of Flotsam. It was funny how that look had never seemed to bother Iorveth.

Not now, and certainly not then.

It was late at night, the darkness having already settled its veil over the sky, leaving it clear and filled of twinkling stars. Had you been outside you would have heard the chirping of crickets and the soft tune of wind, whispering of its eternal love for the forest.

Alas, they weren’t outside to enjoy such a symphony.

They were in the heart of the palace in Vizima. Stone walls and glass kept night and nature firmly at bay on the outside. In the stead of wind and the soft sound of rustling leaves, there was an eerie silence that only the humans seemed to be able to enjoy.

Silence rarely was a good sign in Iorveth’s own ears. He felt as though he’d wandered into a trap. That any moment now, a monster would pounce at him from the shadows and sink its long claws into him.

Logically though, he knew this was no trap. It was a new start.

Iorveth crosses the room from the window he’d entered, rounding the desk in the middle of the room and lazily leans over the chair to place a lazy kiss to Roche’s cheek. He’s smoothly shaved and there’s no disturbance by the usual cloth that Roche would wear for hat.

The hat had been exchanged, in it’s stead was a crown circling his head. A ridiculous thing if you asked Iorveth, but he’d seen enough of them to know it was what the humans pulled of as fashion in these circumstances. Just like the ridiculous outfit Roche was wearing instead of his regular blue stripe commander outfit.

The first time Iorveth had seen Roche in his ridiculous outfit he’d laughed so hard he’d nearly fallen over. He hadn’t even meant to laugh, it had just happened due to… well? How well and truly ridiculous Roche looked in them.

Hopefully, with time and adjustment, Iorveth would get used to seeing the commander in this ridiculous outfit. That, or if they gave him something more befitting of a man who so clearly had spent most of his life in the army one way or another.

“Did you manage to reach them?” Roche asks, his voice exhausted as he leans back in his chair.

“Of course.”

“And? Did they agree?”

“Three units of scoia’tael. They will consider your offer if they are promised the same rights as any dh’oine.”

Iorveth slips his hands down over Roches’ chest and drops his head against Roche’s shoulder. It isn’t the most comfortable way to stand with his back bent, but he’s had far worse and he simply wished to fill his senses with the scent of Roche.

At times, things simply felt so surreal. Half of the time the last couple of weeks Iorveth was certain he would wake up on a bedroll by a burnt down fire. Finding that he’d been trapped in some lucid dream where his mind hade made all of this up.

Roche had been crowned the king of Temeria, appointed directly by emperor Emhyr Var Emreis. Peace had settled over the land after this, and while there was much left to do, there was a strange sense of safety laying over Temeria.

Roche had begun working on extending a hand to nonhumans, giving them the chance to live in the cities. Not in the slums, but integrated in the city, along with the humans.  Elves, dwarves, sorceresses, they were all invited to live in the city, in the same places as the humans inhabited.

There had been setbacks, of course there had. But Roche had handled them with grace, used them to make his plans stronger. His blue stripes unit weren’t any longer people to be feared or hated. They patrolled the streets along with the guards, making certain there were no riots, no mobs, no fighting in the streets or any dark alleys that were dangerous at night.

Roche had gone so far as to offer a place in the city for the scoia’tael.

“Of course.” Roche hums with a little nod. “Your unit, they’re settling in already, aren’t they?”

Iorveth can’t help the soft smile on his lips at the thought of his unit. They had settled in and done so well. They all lived close to one another, force of habit more than anything. But the most remarkable of it all, was that one of his top archer’s, was pregnant.

Her husband had cried while telling Iorveth of it. Iorveth had cried too, and they had embraced for a long time

“Yes, Addeah is with child.”

“The brunette with the feathers in her braid?”

Iorveth nods at this, giving up a soft little sigh. This child was more than just a child. It was hope. This child was one of the main reasons as to why more groups had accepted to lay down their weapons in favor of trying out a life in the city.

There was not one elf out there who did not long and yearn for a child of their very own. Of the thought of creating a family.

A comfortable silence settles between them, and Iorveth closes his eye. He is simply breathing in the scent of Roche, breathing in the feeling of safety and comfort. The feeling of being in a trap having evaporated from his mind, chased away by the scent. The thought of children having settled warmly in his heart.

“Will you stay?” Roche asks, silently, barely there at all.

Iorveth opens his eyes once again, taking yet another deep breath of Roche’s scent. Roche was smelling faintly of citrus, a very new scent that must come from the sudden access to regular baths. But beneath that scent, Roche still smelled of himself, a scent that so distinctly belonged to Vernon Roche that there was no mistaking it. The scent of home.

“I see no better way to keep boredom to become the cause of your premature death.”

Roche chuckles lightly at that, then there are coarse lips pressing against Iorveth’s cheek. Roche’s fingers laces with Iorveth’s where he’d kept his hand over Roche’s heart.

If there was a future to be had, it laid here, with Roche. Iorveth would enjoy watching as this man changed the world around them, he would dare hope that things could change. And he would make sure no assassin laid their fingers on Roche. Ever.

“Ioveth?”

“Hm?”

“Marry me.”  


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The last chapter, finishline! A year later, but hey! Here it is!

There was a time, once in Roche’s life, where the soft simple sound of a flute would simply drive him up the damn walls. He could easily remember an early morning, the rising sun promising a beautiful day, just a few years ago. He could remember the smell of the forests just outside Flotsam and the sound of the river they’d just come from.

That damn sound coming from the flute had been the most aggravating sound he’d ever heard in his entire life.

Today however, the sound only serves to put a smile on his face when he’s met of the soft tune of said instrument. It never quite fit within the palace walls, but out in one of the inner courtyards, it had a very calming effect as it peacefully floated through the air.

You couldn’t actually see who was playing, you could only hear the sound. It was in the middle of the day, making the courtyard swimming in a warm glow from the sun, and several people were occupying various benches or leaned against walls. Nobles mostly, but also a few guards.

But neither of them was holding anything resembling a flute.

Roche quietly makes his way over to Ves who stood leaned against a column, watching over the courtyard. Her arms were crossed, making her still overly exposed chest a little more prominent. After all these years, Roche simply knew better than to actually try to get her to dress more appropriately, even inside the palace.

“How long have they been out here?” He wonders, leaning against the opposite column. Mimicking her stance with his arms crossing over his own chest.

“A few hours. Enough for people to stop caring.”

Roche nods, and together they just stand for a while. It’s a good day, Roche doesn’t get too many of those. Days where he could just stop and smell the flowers, or whatever the fuck the expression was.

“You know, there’s no one I’d trust more than you with him.”

“I know. Didn’t think I’d like watching him at first.”

“But?”

“He’s growing on me.”

Roche snorts amused at that, a little shake of his head. He’d been the damned king of Temeria for nearly a decade now. Ves, his left hand and most trusted military commander, had acted as his bodyguard in the beginning of it all.

He hadn’t asked her for it of course, in fact he’d repeatedly told her he damn well didn’t need a damn bodyguard. But she’d done it because she worried and she’d saved his life exactly twice his first year.

When things had calmed down though, Roche had given her a fancy title as well, mostly to mess with her. Then, a few years ago, someone else had needed a bodyguard and Ves had reclaimed the role. But this time not to Roche.

There’s a child’s giggle coming from the leaves of the large tree, and the tune of the flute stops. Something falls from the top of the tree, landing with a little thud on the ground underneath it.

Roche touches Ve’s shoulder with a little smile, she nods at him in return. Then Roche crosses the courtyard and picks up the wooden flute that had just been dropped.

Another giggle, and as Roche looks up, it’s just in time to see a small foot taking a wrong step on a branch. The next moment a small body is coming tumbling down and straight into his arms.

Roche having been on the right place at the right time though, easily catches the young boy. It’s a small lad, Seven winters of age with brown lush hair and forest green eyes. The wide grin on his face is pain strikingly familiar.

“And here I thought all elves knew how to climb trees.”

There’s no actual judgement or annoyance in his voice. Only softness, which is the only way he knows to sound like when he speaks to his son. He can raise his voice in court, could raise his voice when the military were being idiots and could raise his voice against Ves when she was reckless.

But to his only child?

“Only because of the number of trees we fall out of as children.”

Iorveth jumps down from the tree, agile as a fucking cat, just as he always does. Roche watches as he brushes some leaves off his clothes. They aren’t the garb he used to wear of bits and pieces grabbed from dead soldiers, but actual semi-formal clothes.

Though Roche knew there was a lot more knives hidden in his clothes than was proper. Iorveth would never stop being who he was, expecting trouble at any time.

Iorveth leans into a kiss, a kiss that Roche is glad to return. Both of them simply ignored the _“eeww!”_ that comes from between them. Roche still hadn’t let their child go.

“I also didn’t fall! I jumped.” The boy grumbles stubbornly, pushing at Iorveth’s chest to get him to move away.

Iorveth complies to the demand with a little laugh, and Roche finally let’s the young boy back to the ground.

Farvionn, that’s the name of his son, their son. Farvionn Roche. It had been quite the scandal of course, the king of Temeria and an elven child. Because there was absolutely no hiding the pointed ears, not that Roche or Iorveth had ever made any attempts to even try.

But as with everything, it had calmed down and here they were.

Farvionn giggles once more before setting off in a speed towards Ves. He bounces a little excitedly on his heels and looks up at her with those big eyes that are so damn hard to resist.

“I’m stealing your son Roche, someone need to keep him on his toes.”

“As long as you give him back in one piece.” Iorveth returns before Roche even get the chance, a sly smile on his lips.

Ves just winks at them, then they both heads off towards the practice area. Farvionn was making excellent progress on his fencing lessons and took absolutely every chance he got to practice.

Roche and Iorveth both had been adamant that they didn’t give a rotten fuck what people would say; their son needed to know how to handle himself in a fight. There were enough people who hated them enough to try to kill them and even if Ves was a great bodyguard, it was even better if Farvionn could fend for himself until help arrived.

Roche smiles to himself as Iorveth’s arms wraps around his middle. There’s nothing else to do than to comfortably lean back against his husband’s chest, and simply enjoy the contact.

In the beginning of his rule, several of his advisors, Triss included, had been trying to get this behavior to stop on public places. They kept telling him that his public displays for an elf wasn’t doing his image any good.

Not just any elf either, but Iorveth.

By the time they’d gotten married, there had been actual riots. **_Riots._** In the damn streets, but they’d been put down. By the time they’d had Farvionn, people had decided that his relationship with Iorveth was something good. Even if they hadn’t liked the idea that an elf was now heir to the throne.

“He’ll make a good king one day.” Roche muses softly.

“I suppose, he takes after his father in that.” Roche can feel Iorveth’s chin drop against his shoulder.

“You know, if I didn’t know you better, that sounded like a compliment.”

“How dreadful of me, this place must be making me soft.”

Roche snorts amused at that, pulling away from Iorveth’s grasp. But his elf is still quick as a damn weasel and the bugger easily catches his hand. A cocky grin on his beautiful lips, the kind of grin that tugs at his scar.

“How long?” Iorveth drawls, voice making Roche shiver.

“Approximately and hour.”

“Bedroom?”

Roche smiles lazily at the elf. Being the king was a lot of hard work, a ton of annoying duties… There were days he’d swear he was going to die of exhaustion. Days he wanted to punch people in the damn face out of frustration. Days he wanted to outright cry because it was just too damn much.

But there was something he could always count on in his life. No matter the fact that him and Iorveth had been married for years. No matter the fact that they had a child together… Roche would always have Iorveth.

Iorveth who somehow knew exactly how to brighten his days. Being it in teasing him mercilessly about his clothes, offering a shoulder to cry on, share a good long fuck. Iorveth always knew how to make Roche’s day good.

“My office is closer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who left kudos, for anyone who left comments and for everyone reading. You've all been so amazing and I'm so thankful for all your support!  
> I hope you've enjoyed this ride, and if you ever want more witcher fics, you guys let me know! either here or on my tumblr: isalashadow   
> Anyway, thank you again guys! You've been absolutely amazing!

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes. I am dyslectic and English isn't my first langue so I hope you will still enjoy reading.  
> Koments and kudos are always appreciated and if you want to ask any questions or have anything to ask, this is the direction to my tumblr.
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/isalahadow
> 
> You guys have a good day!


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